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Kayla Dawn 📚🌱

@kayladawnlink

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✨Dreamer, wanderer, storyteller, maker✨
For the love of words & the public library
Beausoleil First Nation wanderer on Gumbaynggirr land, Australia

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Small moments of perfection. Is that the Patchett charm?

“𝘕𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳—𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴, 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘴.” (Following Eddie’s toast at the 60th anniversary party)

I just loved the vivid visual of this line so much—strength in a single stroke. These are the moody snippets I can’t get enough of, how she can set a dynamic scene with just the right key details and leave an echo of curiosity.

The sweetness of life, of love and connection, the art of grace and complex relationships that arc over a lifetime, the impermanence of it all…There’s a distinct joy and playfulness to Whistler that sets it aside from other Patchett novels. I was not surprised to hear (in an interview) that Whistler essentially spilled out of her after an arduous attempt to write a different novel that ultimately failed to work. In her own words, Ann was “cooking from the kitchen” here and I think perhaps that’s why Whistler feels so free-flowing and intimate. This is art straight from the every-day stores of one of our favourite authors, and it is simply beautiful. It reflects her differently.

On a scale of love to love+++, Commonwealth still reigns supreme as my favourite Patchett novel (along with her non-fic) but Whistler is an especially soothing story that will stay with me long after the final pages (perfectly dovetailed btw). It’s an excellent read to slot in between heavy material, and a must for anyone who loves deceptively effortless, empathetic and intimate prose.

📘❓Where on the scale of Patchett favourites did Whistler land for you? by @kayladawnlink

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12 days ago

This little book caused a big uproar a few months back. How can “a book for adults about books for children” be so controversial? The internet was rearing its ugly head at Barnett and trying to tell me what to think, so naturally I was more determined to read it and decide for myself.

In this collection of essays, the main message I felt Barnett shouting into the universe was simple: children are innately intelligent and they deserve respect. Did he suggest that 94.7% of children’s books are “crud”? Yes. Did he liken adults to a totalitarian regime who control the lives of children, constantly correcting them and attempting to “fix” them with the use of propaganda (preachy books)? Also yes. What can I say? Wry humour is very familiar to me, I liked it, there’s a lot of truth here and it’s funny to laugh at ourselves as parents. Perhaps that’s why his words landed well with me but not with others.

🔥 So what went wrong? The criticism is he dogged his colleagues with the word “crud” and also, by challenging the use of didactic storytelling, he was inconsiderate of marginalised authors who bear the weight of representation and education. While these reactions are completely valid, I read his opinions with the criticism in mind and it still landed differently for me. I didn’t hear that teaching stories aren’t worthy, the advice I gleaned was that we respect kids in the process. This includes welcoming negative feelings, mistakes and the complexities of life. That we need not “spell it out” for them (I’m sure all readers agree hand holding is exhausting) and that children deserve creative books that speak to THEM without an adult agenda overwhelming the experience. As a parent trying to raise inspired readers, I can tell you kids know when the book isn’t for them 😂

“Instead of slogans, we need a rich, polyphonic, daring literature full of new and distinct voices, presenting a variety of perspectives and experiences. That would be cool!”

In the end, this is one opinion and ‘The Bucket Book’ remains on our bookshelf. Make Believe is filled with inspiration about writing for children and reading with them—take it with the criticism for a balanced approach ✨ by @kayladawnlink

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a month ago

This post will likely be censored.

The irony? This👆🏽is a novel criticising the censorship of Palestinian perspectives. Further irony? The industry did indeed censor this Palestinian authored novel about CENSORSHIP. Sometimes you just have to laugh in the darkness of it all (tell me again why the world is censoring human suffering and opposition to genocide?) but here’s the beauty: readers and writers pushed back. Reading the books (writing the books), sharing the posts, having the conversations and flat out refusing to accept censorship of any kind, matters, and this is one powerful narrative about institutional silencing—compelling in its own right—that deserves our attention.

Overcoming tokenism, the constant need to prove your worth, the pressure to be palatable, the pressure of representation, the pressure to be ‘disciplined’ so your entire community stands a chance of being heard and seen (in any capacity) while other colleagues wield a selective freedom they can’t even see—all while grieving terror in Gaza from afar. Desperate for updates from family while simultaneously juggling new motherhood, or divorce, or just coping with the ordinary challenges of every-day life. Abdel-Fattah invites her readers into this perspective, to follow the lives of two main characters—a Palestinian-Australian journalist and an Egyptian-Australian academic—into the newsroom and the university, to see the systemic prejudices media and academia uphold every single day. Tony Birch blurbs on the cover that ‘Discipline is an invitation to be in this world together’ and I can’t imagine a better way to put it.

“If everything about our resistance is taboo now, nothing from our oppressors will be taboo later.” 🔥

This is the narrative pairing to Omar El Akkad’s ‘One Day Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This’. It’s a compelling, nuanced and enraging story of moral courage vs. cowardice, infused with humour and hope, and writers: Abdel-Fattah can show you how to write modern technology into your stories! (Seamless instant connection, urgent, real.)

Local friends, if you’d like to read this copy, shout out. 🇵🇸📖 by @kayladawnlink

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2 months ago

I accidentally inhaled this collection!

The urgency surprised me. Story after story, I was completely swept away and spent the days hungry to get back to my book. Then it was gone. I had nearly passed up my place in the library queue with this one (the bedside stack is teetering) and it turned out to be one of the best story collections I’ve read in ages! I couldn’t stop dissecting the art of the short story as I worked my way through—the humanity, the gut-punches—It made me want to read more, to WRITE more. Groff had me wrapped around her finger!

The theme of this collection is light and dark ✨ Each story, either at the beginning, end or somewhere in the middle, shifts to reveal a crossroads or a new perspective on the characters’ reality—context that flips opinion on its head. What is more human than acknowledging the duality and complexities of every situation, every decision?

Simply put, I loved it. I’m finding it impossible to pick a favourite but there’s something achingly genuine about ‘Annunciation’, ‘What’s the Time Mr. Wolf’ is the perfect portrait of what wealth and privilege is capable of breeding, and ‘The Wind’? It crushed me like a wisp.

📕Do you have a favourite (or 5) from this collection? by @kayladawnlink

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2 months ago

Land is SPELLBINDING ✨ an atmospheric, deep-rooted tale that completely washes you over. A multi-generational epic where land is family.

I believe that our homelands are alive and pulsing within us. That the body extends beyond the flesh, with strings of connection tethering us to layers of earth, life and history. It’s a thread you can tap into, knowing or unknowingly, even when you’re thousands of years or miles away. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥 is a sweeping embodiment of this connection. Maggie O’Farrell has impressively given shape to the abstract, carrying her readers away on a feeling that’s otherwise really hard to explain.

Not only does O’Farrell tell the people and the land’s story through a mapper’s lens—topographic tales of glacial form, ancient histories, evolving culture, colonialism and famine—but she brushes up against that thin barrier between worlds. The physical and metaphysical mixing that’s hard to render into words. She shows her readers how the land holds memory, how the body holds memory and how our animal kin are ducking and weaving among it all too.

Yes, this is a story about British colonialism, the resilience of a people, how the land herself tells stories with her shapes, but it’s also a story about silences—the things that are and aren’t said in the wake of trauma. How silence is sometimes inherited and can sever us from culture and connection, rob us of knowing and ripple its effect across time. But even so, as Maggie so effectively pens, land is unconditionally in our bones.

The message of loss and innate connection here is incredibly special. I love how Maggie has found so much inspiration from the stories of her ancestors to bring this novel to life. You can really feel the heart on every page and I can just imagine how it’s inspiring connection in her readers ✨

📗how did this one make you feel after that last page? by @kayladawnlink

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3 months ago

A few things:

➡️ I struggle to pick favourites. Some might say I’m a generous reader, but I think I’m just a very grateful one who knows what she likes.

➡️ A lot of these books actually made me cry, but Hamnet was sob-inducing so it wins (no surprise).

➡️ Who can possibly pick a ‘most’ anticipated new release this year? So many of my favourite authors are publishing new works, but I’m especially excited for Amanda Peters’ sophomore novel The Birthing Tree.

➡️ Again, I know what I like and so changed one category, can you spot it? 👀 @marcus.is.reading

📘Medicine Walk is hands down the most beautiful book I’ve read this year. That decision was easy even considering all the wonderful reads that filled the first half of my year, and my signature struggle to pick a fav ✨

📘On Wholeness - I’m going to double down and say this is the most unique book I’ve read in a long time and it gave me belly butterflies. Those criticising monotony in the industry need to read more books like this.

📘 Geraldine Brooks? Wow.

📘The Nights are Quiet in Tehran - why did it surprise me? I didn’t expect to see pieces of myself in this story, but there I was with my migratory grief.

📚Do we share any similarities here? Are any of these titles enticing or new to you?

Thanks @ktlee.writes for sparking the mid year book love! by @kayladawnlink

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3 months ago

There is a distinct comfort that comes with the deceptively quiet, observant storyteller.

Richard Wagamese draws your attention to the fine detail and with deep humanity and stunning accuracy, holds it there using an artfully simple string of words. It’s the gift of showing someone the world as the sum of its smaller parts. I find the skill strikingly beautiful and with the exception of Ann Patchett, and maybe Hemingway, no other author nourishes me in this particular way. The clarity and warmth in his words are a true gift.

Medicine Walk is the story of a son guiding his estranged and dying biological father across mountainous backcountry, in search of a burial site. It’s a story about both profound and confusing love, loss, grace and about finding belonging and healing through connection with the land. It made me cry and ache and glow all the same. An apt pick for The Kanata Classics series, and a classic for my own shelf that I’ll revisit again and again for the life inside.

“Sometimes when things get taken away from you it feels like there’s a hole at your centre where you can feel the wind blow through.” by @kayladawnlink

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4 months ago

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4 months ago

No one can assemble a dynamic cast of characters quite like Louise Erdrich. The master weaver of interconnected life ✨🌱💧 Between the covers of each of her novels dwells a living, breathing community ready to tell a story through land and collective memory. There’s a comfort and familiarity to this style of storytelling that brings me home to her work over and over again.

Inside ‘The Mighty Red’ you’ll find a small sugar-beet town with tattered bonds to the land. This North Dakota farming community is dependant upon an industry laying waste to the land and beloved river. Much like in real life, Erdrich writes environmental destruction as a backdrop to the immediate drama of her character’s lives. Both central to existence but often secondary to the love, pain and trauma that occupies their energy. Dust lifts and swirls into muted birdless skies while teenagers navigate life-altering losses, fumble through marriage proposals and a trickster comically eludes authorities by sinking into swampy sludge with a snorkel. The mood is melancholic yet funny, with deadpan humour playing the lifeline that brings light to hopeless situations. Joy is always alive in the presence of humour, and Louise displays that so beautifully here.

Despite serious themes, this story is light and hopeful with progressive awareness and glimmering acts of change. It will steady you and make you think before you choose, think before you judge. I think it may be my favourite use of humour within her work so far. An overall beautiful read 📚

Do you have a favourite novel or author that uses humour in such pivotal way?

“The only thing wrong with the job was how her feet sweat. Otherwise she could have walked for years in the fatal sunshine, over the poisoned earth, occasionally blessed by the acid rain, chemically altered by an occasional crop duster.” by @kayladawnlink

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4 months ago

My travel-in-time piece.

Back to the little round table in the tiny kitchen. The bowl of mints, the word search books neatly stacked underneath folded glasses, the tissues, the phone on the wall with the address book in the stand below. I look to my right and find my cousin but he’s only 7 years old. He’s asking our grandmother for a snack—and hoping for ice cream—as he rolls a mint around in his mouth. There’s not much room between the chairs and the wall but we all fit just fine here. I’m salty with summer sweat, focused on smoothing the freshly tender road rash on my palm before the drumming of fingers shifts my attention across the table. I lift my head and find this watch, reliably at home against my grandfather’s dark skin, his strong hand slightly curled and resting on the table. I hear his deep, warm voice say something serious, then it erupts into a booming laugh as he pounds his fist down and sighs. My grandmother’s soft chuckle and delicate smile trails like a bookend to a hazy memory.

Every time I looked down at my wrist, I see his watch first, then his skin, then his whole hand comes into view before pulling me into some version of the same thing. I know each of my grandparents’ hands so well. Better than my parents’, better than my own. They’re the ones who slowed down with us. Who rested their hands in front of us. by @kayladawnlink

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5 months ago

I found this a strange collection. Eerie with that classic Claire Keegan atmosphere and kind of dark and twisted, with jarring endings that left me feeling like a jaded lover: unable to settle into any signs of joy in the subsequent story for fear of how it all might go wrong.

Then halfway through the book that all starts to ease. Endings become lighter and hopeful and the emotional whiplash of it all makes me wonder if the darkness was ever truly dark? Or did I just experience literary Stockholm syndrome? One of the blurbs on this copy describes the stories as “chilling, adult versions of fairy tales” and that is so accurate. Either way, for all the same reasons we all love her novellas, it’s impossible to deny the magic Claire Keegan can achieve with so few words and those knock-out endings she delivers everytime. It begs to be savoured, studied and given a permanent place on the bookshelf for future indulging.

It’s hard to pick a favourite title, but I’ll choose ‘The Burning Palms’ because I miss my grandparents, ‘Men and Women’ because fuck the patriarchy and the title story ‘Antartica’ because yep, that really is an adult fairy tale 😅

If you’ve read this collection, which was your favourite? by @kayladawnlink

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5 months ago

I could not put this book down. Geraldine had me eagerly shuffling my kids to sleep each night so I could sidle up alongside her grief, page after page after page. I did not expect to find a memoir about loss and grief so compelling, the propulsive nature of her words completely took me by surprise. Her humanity, the intimacy of her prose, had me wondering: how have I never read Geraldine Brooks before? Or the prodigious Tony Horwitz? And why do I want to live inside this book of grief?

Memorial Days is Geraldine Brooks mourning in reflection after the sudden death of her love and partner of 35yrs, Tony Horwitz. In beautiful essay-like chapters, she flits between the dizzying minutes, days and months following the shocking news of his death—a time that demands instead of gives space for grief—and three years forward, where she’s taken herself into isolation on Flinders Island, to finally process her sorrow. Honouring a love and life lost, deeply, fully, intentionally. This structure of dipping back and forth in time with each consecutive chapter is one of my favourite qualities. It’s gentle, reminiscent and roomy the way the story unfurls, a true product of intention.

With this book, Brooks will have you thinking about the way we grieve—or don’t grieve—the rituals lost but needed, how the system fails the bereaved and how truly precious life is. This incredibly tender read is one I’ll recommend often. 📙

“I needed to scream, weep, throw myself on the floor, rend my garments, tear my hair.

But I couldn’t allow myself to do any of those things. Because I had to do so many other things.” by @kayladawnlink

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6 months ago