The General Hospital, by Anne Buist & Graeme Simsion

Trainee psychiatrist Hannah Wright is back on the wards of the general hospital in this third novel following her life and career in psychiatry at the Menzies Hospital in Melbourne. It follows the same path as the first two, presenting case studies of mental illness and its treatment alongside Hannah’s personal and professional life. This is again done with warmth and heart, clearly showing the difficulties of working in the health system, particularly in the ‘poor relation’ that is mental health. There are successes as well as challenges and joy amidst the tragedy, as Hannah treats new and recurring patients and navigates her own family and relationship issues. Anne Buist is a psychiatrist and the case studies ring true, as does the hospital politics and resource and funding issues. But the examination is far more than clinical, leaving a sense of cautious optimism about the level of care that is possible.

A Common Hour, by Sita Walker

Who would be a teacher? Set in a Queensland state high school, the action is packed into the lunch hour - broken into 15 minute segments that are divided into flashbacks of years and decades that delve into the background and motivation of the story’s many and varied characters. These include popular English teacher Paul ‘Bushy’ Bush, his senior students, fellow teachers and the school Head, Freedom Cook. The forest adjoining the school, where much of the lunchtime activity takes place, is almost a character itself. A student with an old grudge uses social media to trigger a crisis that will cause profound change in many lives, especially Bushy’s. Will students and teachers turn and pile on or rally around? Mental health, bullying, burnout, family violence, thwarted relationships, intergenerational trauma and young love – it’s all dealt with over that crowded hour. The time jumps can get a bit much, necessary as they are to uncover the truth of complex relationships. Despite its dark themes a vein of humour underpins this often difficult tale, boosted by a sense of quiet faith in the essential goodness of people and a hope that this can overcome the darkness.

Tilda is Visible, by Jane Tara

A divorced mother of grown-up twin girls, Tilda Finch runs a successful business and has great friends. So why has her body started disappearing? Diagnosed with invisibility, Tilda finds she is part of a growing cohort of women across the world who are disappearing from view. Although it is a recognised medical condition there is little research into the problem and much dispute about whether or how it can be treated. Tilda will have to dig into her past and confront her inner demons to fight for visibility. It’s an interesting idea (if not original) to take a metaphorical issue that affects many women over 40 and make it a physical reality. But unfortunately this confused and uneven mish-mash of a story is a self-help manual, thinly disguised as a novel. It’s all about perception and meditation and overcoming childhood trauma and self-belief, apparently. Tilda addresses her issues, follows her dreams and dates a man who actually cannot see to regain her visibility. If only it was actually so easy.

The Glass House, by Anne Buist & Graeme Simsion

Aspiring to be a psychiatrist, registrar Hannah Wright works in the acute mental health ward of a major Melbourne hospital. To achieve her goal she must deal with hospital politics, an overburdened health system and her own self-doubt. Each chapter starts with a different mental health crisis, set within a framework of treatment by Hannah and her colleagues. Post-natal psychosis, PTSD, anorexia, schizophrenia, depression – they happen to police officers, politicians, plumbers, refugees, anyone. The heavy subject matter asks important questions about diagnosis and treatment, but is handled with a lightness of touch that makes the book an easy read. It’s so compelling and engaging that it’s difficult to put down and wait to find out what happens to each of the patients and their families. Hannah’s personal and professional relationships are just as interesting as the medical stories. A product of a chaotic country childhood, she has a few issues of her own to address, which cause her to question her vocation. There is apparently the possibility of a sequel, which would be very welcome.

Islands, by Peggy Frew

Victoria’s Phillip Island is the setting for much of this novel about a disintegrating marriage and the lonely outcrops it makes of each family member. Helen and John married straight out of Uni in the 70s and had two daughters, smart, independent Junie and wild, dreamy Anna. The story zaps back and forward in time, showing the family’s origins, background, development and downfall in a series of fragments. These snapshots of events, encounters and moments in time are told from a dizzying multiplicity of points of view, some family members, some friends, acquaintances and schoolmates. Each fragments builds the picture of who these four people are, what happened to them and the fallout of the failure of a family. Mostly it’s about elder daughter June, but it all revolves around the disappearance of Anna, at the age of 15. Did she run away? Was she kidnapped? Is she alive or dead? And who is to blame? The questions are never answered, for the reader or for the people in her life. This leaves the larger question of just how do you deal with that?

Her Fidelity, by Katherine Pollock

Unashamedly riffing on Nick Hornby’s Hi Fidelity, this cautionary tale is set in contemporary Brisbane rather than 80s London. Music nerd Kathy doesn’t own or even run Dusty’s Records, but she has worked there for more than a decade, since she was a teen. Rampant sexism and misogyny, with a smidge of sexual assault, are the hallmarks of Kathy’s work and life experience and, despite her sass, she rarely snaps back, but lets it shape her. A curious mixture of smart and naïve for someone who is 29, Kathy seems to be trapped in a kind of extended adolescence – spongeing off her parents, eating badly and drinking too much. She is the centre of her own universe, with little scope for mature relationships of any flavour. In fact Kathy has a deep well of simmering anger and a couple of triggers bring this to the surface to finally spark some changes in her life. Many characters are caricatures and the tone is hyper-real, most likely a deliberate choice to provide a lighter way into the serious issues Kathy confronts on her way to belated adulthood. Ultimately a salute to enduring and sustaining female friendship, the book does acknowledge the good guys; not all men, but most of them.

Moon Sugar, by Angela Meyer

A young Australian sex worker goes missing in Berlin and, as he left a note, the Police rule the case a suicide. Back in Melbourne, his flatmate and his sugar mummy are in grief and disbelief and separately make their ways to Europe to try to find out what happened. There Kyle and Mila team up and, as well as investigating Josh’s movements, each goes on a journey of self-discovery. So far so good. Mila and Josh had been involved in some kind of experiment with consciousness, possibly involving drugs, which seems to have triggered his disappearance. How does this link to the experiences of an American astronaut 23 years previously, who is dealing with the aftermath of a mistake made in space? The answer is beyond stupid, with a bizarre and holey plot, cardboard characters, a didactic tone and a ludicrous outcome. The real question is how does drek like this get published?

A Solitary Walk on the Moon, by Hilde Hinton

Evelyn runs a laundrette, with precision and attention to detail. She also pays attention to her customers and neighbours, going above and beyond to help them out, whether they want it or not. Observant and judgemental, Evelyn is something of a chameleon. She adapts her behaviour and language to remain largely unobtrusive to those around her, which allows her to overstep and get away with it. It soon becomes clear that Evelyn has a habit of reinventing herself; leaving her past behind to start fresh. When she intervenes in the lives of a troubled woman and her eight-year-old son there is a chance to change this pattern and build a rag-tag family – but can she take it? Although there are no supernatural elements in this tale, the writing holds a touch of magic. Evelyn operates as a kind of ephemeral fairy godmother, solving problems and making connections in her community to improve everyone’s lives. This includes her own, but there is a residual sadness as it seems she is unable to resolve her own issues and enjoy the benefits of her labours.

Love and Virtue, by Diana Reid

A scholarship girl from Canberra, Michaela is an outsider at Sydney University’s Fairfax residential college. Super smart, but lacking confidence and a little naïve, from the start she submerges herself into the rampant drinking culture in order to fit in. Her next door neighbour Eve is a performative rebel, but is really just another of the privileged Sydney private school boys and girls who all know each other. Their friendship is always problematic, but Michaela doesn’t realise it until Eve co-opts an incident in O week to make a point and raise her own profile. The fallout lasts a lifetime. Reid’s depiction of campus and college life rings true and Michaela’s undergraduate experience investigates power and consent in this milieu. The story has a 90s vibe so it is shocking to realise it is contemporary and depressing to know that so little has changed nor seems likely to among the entrenched and toxic structures of academia. This debut novel has seen Diana Reid compared to Irish publishing phenomenon Sally Rooney, but her writing seems far more grounded in the real world. She has a second novel in the works so it will be interesting to see where she goes next. Hopefully not up her own arse like Rooney.

Almost a Mirror, by Kirsten Krauth

Teenage groupie Mona and her childhood sweetheart Jimmy live through the music of the 80s. Later Benat’s memories as an immigrant teen in the druggy Melbourne music scene are added to the mix. The action jumps back and forth in time between the 1980s and the 2010s, in a series of sometime confusing vignettes. It’s all sex and drugs and rock’n’roll, with a dash of child abuse and neglect thrown in for fun. Set in Castlemaine and grungy St Kilda, the integration of real musicians sits oddly amid the fictional; it should add authenticity but makes the fictional seem fake. Bold, evocative writing creates a strong sense of place and time, but there is little in the way of character development. Elliptical references in early chapters are fleshed out in rather too much detail later in the book, whereas some questions could use an answer. A classic 80s song, said by the author to have inspired it, heads each chapter. Some inspiration is clearer than others and similarly, some chapters work better than others. The best are knife-sharp, moving, evocative and heartbreaking; others are kind of meh. It seems Mona and Benat are survivors, able to eventually grow up, while Jimmy is not. Is the moral of the story that it is impossible to escape your origins and that we are destined to be the kind of parent we had? The title refers to matching incidents in 1984 and 2018, the only chapters written in first person, with Mona abused as a child and taking a kind of revenge as an adult. These sit oddly out of context with the rest of the book.

The Yield, by Tara June Winch

August returns to the country town where she grew up, Massacre Creek, for the funeral of her grandfather. We are told right from the start that August’s childhood was haunted, first by the delinquency of her parents and soon after by the disappearance of her sister. It is implied that negligence meant her sister’s disappearance was never properly investigated because she was Aboriginal and August has never got over it. August’s present, compelling narrative is punctuated by excerpts from her grandfather’s dictionary and also by excerpts from a letter from an early missionary to the region, dated 1915. Prior knowledge of the book made the jump between narrators more explicable, but this should not be necessary. It reads somewhat disjointedly until deep into the story, when the three strands come together in a way that finally makes sense. August’s reluctant return from overseas to the miserable town she had escaped is gradually turned around to a welcome home as she painfully comes to terms with her own tragic past, her family’s past and her people’s past. By the end the novel becomes an astonishingly clear and poignant expression of the plight of Australia’s indigenous people and how many feel about it. It should probably be added to the national curriculum and should definitely be required reading for politicians, policy makers and all those who just don’t get what all the fuss is about.

Gravity is the Thing, by Jaclyn Moriarty

Thirty-something Abigail has been receiving random chapters of self-help book in the mail for the last 20 years. Her younger brother Robert has been missing for around the same amount of time. They were very close and Abi has lived almost a half-life ever since, despite a short marriage and having a child on her own. An all expenses paid retreat on a Tasmanian island offers the final truth of The Guidebook. A select few, including Abi, are given that truth and the chance to take it further in workshops back home in Sydney. This leads to friendships, possible romance and eventually to the answers Abi has been seeking about her brother. The book has an odd structure. Some chapters are very short – a few paragraphs or even a few words - for no discernible reason. The story of the missing brother and how this affected the family is poignant and well told. The present day story of flight school is absurd and it’s easy to run out of patience with Abigail’s arrested development. Many aspects do not hang together and the final chapters, which project into the future and are written in future tense, are dull and annoying. The novel leaves one pressing question - how many Moriarty sisters are there and how long will they be cashing in on Liane’s great success? The answer to both questions is seemingly endless.

Into the Fire, by Sonia Orchard

Heavily pregnant with her first child, Lara visits her friend Crow and his three kids in the country. His wife and her best friend since Uni, Alice, died in a house fire a year ago. Lara goes back over their friendship in her mind, recalling how they met at University, and how their friendship changed when Alice met Crow. It is somewhat dismaying that all relationships in this book – familial, romantic and platonic – are dysfunctional and damaging. For someone who studied psychology and frequently references it, Lara seems totally unable to apply any of that knowledge to gain understanding of herself, or her family and friends. Similarly she calls herself a feminist and judges her friend for seemingly abandoning feminist principles, while demonstrating little awareness of how her own behaviour falls short. Firmly set in Melbourne, with frequent geographical references, it’s jarring to get a sudden mention of a racecourse in Sydney and the occasional clearly made up town, in what appears to be an editing fail. None of the characters are sympathetic in what is ultimately a bleak read. The big reveal at the end only reinforces the depths of Lara’s self-delusion, with no indication of how she is likely to proceed with the information and the possible insight she has gained. The only certainty is the likelihood of the damage and dysfunction continuing to another damaged generation.