Emily Rhodes
Reviewer Masterclass
Indie Novella is delighted to bring you a Masterclass with reviewer for The Spectator and The Guardian, as well as the founder of Emily's Walking Book Club and the magnificent charity Book Banks, Emily Rhodes. To have such an influencial reviewer provide insight into what a reader is looking for in a novel is such a coup and we were delighted to secure Emily's time. Emily really focuses on what a novel does well, what excites her about the story and the prose, what works, and uses examples from some of her 2024 reviews such as Headshot by Rita Bullwinkel and The Echoes by Evie Wyld to illustrate how as a reviewer and a reader you can tell the books which are going to thrive and only home in on why they are such a delight to read.
When it comes to reviewing books, the process can vary. Sometimes, I pitch a list of books I’m interested in reviewing to an editor, and initially, I might face some rejections before they accept one or two. Other times, I’m approached out of the blue to review a book, which can be a pleasant surprise or a challenge, depending on the book.
I used to work at Daunt Books and remain closely connected with them. For any aspiring writer, working in a bookshop is invaluable; you’re surrounded by books, constantly discussing them with customers and colleagues, and you develop a keen sense of what makes a good book. Although it's been seven years since I left Daunt, I still visit often. It feels like family, and I enjoy browsing and catching up with the staff.
While I was working at Daunt, they started publishing their own list, which was an exciting development. As a reviewer, you develop a sense of which publishers and editors align with your tastes, and Daunt is one of those for me. I always look forward to seeing what they publish next.
The book is truly unique in many ways. It’s a novel set around a boxing tournament in America, at Bob’s Boxing Palace in Reno, if I recall correctly. The structure of the book is fascinating, with a diagram that shows how each chapter corresponds to a specific match. For example, the first chapter covers a bout between Artemis Victor and Andi Taylor, followed by another between Kate Haffer and Rachel Doro, and so on. Each chapter immerses the reader in one boxer's perspective, taking them through the process of the match and culminating in the final fight.
The narrative is incredibly physical and exhilarating, as you're drawn into the ring alongside the fighters, experiencing the intensity of the action from their point of view. What makes it even more compelling is that the author, Bullwinkel, doesn’t just stay in the present moment of the fight. She telescopes back to explore the fighters' formative experiences, showing what they’re thinking about as they fight, and also flashes forward to reveal glimpses of who they will become in the future.
For instance, one character constantly counts as a way of calming herself, and we learn that she eventually becomes an events planner. Another fighter, with a keen eye for detail, later becomes a private investigator. These character traits are subtly woven into their present actions, giving readers a deeper understanding of their personalities.
The first sentence, "Andi Taylor is pumping her hands together, hitting her own flat stomach," immediately pulls you into the ring, feeling the physicality of the moment. But within a single sentence, the narrative shifts unexpectedly to Andi’s tragic memory of watching a four-year-old die, an event that profoundly shapes her.
The prose is sharp, with short, punchy sentences that mirror the rhythm of a fight, moving quickly but punctuated by powerful moments of introspection. Bullwinel skillfully jumps back and forth in time, keeping the reader fully engaged in the characters' stories and the unfolding action in the ring.
The boxing tournament serves as an excellent framing device for the novel. However, while a structured device like this can risk feeling gimmicky, Bullwinkel’s strong prose carries it through seamlessly. A lesser writer might have struggled with such a concept, but she handles it with such skill that it feels natural and integral to the story rather than contrived.
The book is written in third person but is very close to the characters' perspectives, almost like indirect speech. Although the narrative occasionally zooms out to show external details like the parents watching from the sidelines, most of the time, you're deeply immersed in the individual characters' minds.
What fascinated me most about this book is how it presents eight girls, each in the ring, with their own unique stories. Despite the surface-level similarity of being girl boxers, the author takes great care to portray each as a distinct individual. The structure of the book, where each girl has her own section, really emphasizes their individuality. However, the narrative also explores what binds these girls together, particularly the powerful connection they share through boxing. This exploration feels incredibly subversive, challenging traditional ideas of femininity and girlhood. Boxing, typically not associated with these concepts, is used cleverly by the author, even down to a line-by-line analysis. For instance, she reinterprets traditionally feminine activities like skipping rope, braiding hair, and hand-clapping games, transforming them into metaphors for fighting. The jump rope becomes a metaphor for the speed of a punch, and the braid becomes a weapon, described as a "painful rope."
The author uses these individual stories to delve into deeper, more profound ideas. She highlights aspects of America and femininity that are rarely seen, addressing bold and important themes. Each of the eight characters is given equal weight in the story, so no single character stands out above the others. Instead, the reader is invited to empathize with each of them equally, getting under their skin for a moment before switching perspectives to their opponents.
The book is less about character development and more about exploring the essence of being a girl and the different expressions of femininity. The author seems to be probing something more profound than individual character, asking, "What does it mean to be a girl?" In my own writing, I usually focus on one character, often using the first person, so working with eight characters like this is challenging. However, the author handles it skillfully, focusing on one character at a time, fight by fight. Ultimately, the book isn't about character in the traditional sense; it challenges the reader's perceptions of women and girls, suggesting that there's an inherent fighter within the female essence. It’s a compelling argument that left me feeling like I wanted to put on gloves and connect with that inner strength.
I wasn't surprised by this book's success or the Booker Longlist. I've read many books over the years, and this one truly stood out. The prose is incredibly strong, line by line, sentence by sentence. It's not just the writing, though—the concept is powerful and unusual, executed with remarkable skill. The way the author captures the intense, minute-by-minute action in the ring, while also zooming out to explore the characters' pasts and even imagining a future on a planet with 12 moons where girls fight again, is truly epic and masterful.
As a reviewer, it's incredibly validating to see a book you've championed receive recognition. Prize listings often come out after a book is published, but you're pitching reviews before that. I've had a few successes, like when I reviewed Headshot before it made the Booker longlist. Another highlight was pitching a review for Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo before it was longlisted or even published, and it went on to become a hugely significant book. Moments like these make you feel like you've truly identified something special among the many books released.
The Echoes by Evie Wyld, just published, is another testament to Wyld's talent as an author. Having written several books, this is likely her fourth or fifth, and I've read a few of her others. Wyld's skill as a writer is evident in every aspect of her work, from the beautifully crafted sentences to the expertly woven narrative structure. Like Rita Bullwinkle, her talent shines through in the precision of her prose and the complexity of her storytelling.
In The Echoes, Wyld employs multiple narratives that are cleverly interwoven. The book alternates between different time periods—sections titled "After," "Before," and "Then"—and also focuses on individual characters. This kind of structure could easily confuse many writers and readers, but Wyld manages it skillfully. She knows exactly how much effort she can ask from the reader without overwhelming them.
I appreciate books that challenge the reader to think and engage deeply with the story. Unlike straightforward murder mysteries that guide you step by step through a mystery and its resolution, Wyld’s writing requires the reader to piece together the clues she leaves behind. You might find yourself wondering why something is significant, only to discover its importance in a later or earlier section. This approach keeps the reader actively involved, making the reading experience more rewarding.
Wyld's work reminds me of another demanding book, The Children's Bach by Helen Garner. Like Wyld, Garner is a highly skilled writer, but her strength lies in her ability to pare down her sentences to the bare essentials. There isn’t a single unnecessary word in her writing, and she offers no backstory, just concise sentences about the present. This can be disorienting, requiring the reader to work hard to understand the characters and their motivations. Some readers, including those in my book club, found this style frustrating and disengaging, while others appreciated the challenge and the unsettling atmosphere it created.
As a writer, it's essential not to spell everything out for the reader. Expect them to put in some effort, but also be prepared for a range of responses—some will love it, while others may not. In fact, some of the best books are like Marmite: people either love them or hate them, and that can be a strength rather than a weakness.
One of the things I really admire about The Echoes is how it elicits curiosity in the reader by introducing them to unexpected and informative content. This novel, like many others I love, teaches the reader something new about a time or place they may not have been familiar with. In The Echoes, this is achieved through the exploration of Australia’s Stolen Generations, which is integrated into one of the story's timelines. Wyld handles this sensitive topic without being too didactic, making it a natural part of the narrative. The afterward provides resources for further learning, which I found eye-opening.
This approach reminds me of other novels, such as Brotherless Night, which taught me a lot about the Sri Lankan Civil War, and Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, which illuminated the Nigerian Civil War and the complexities of Nigeria’s colonial legacy. In these books, the historical or cultural information is woven seamlessly into the story, adding depth without detracting from the novel's emotional impact.
I also recently read The Glass Maker by Tracy Chevalier, which delves into the history of glassmaking in Venice. While the driving force of the novel is a love story with complex family dynamics, the detailed portrayal of glassmaking adds another layer of richness. For someone like me, who isn’t a big reader of non-fiction, learning about such topics through a novel is incredibly rewarding.
As a writer, balancing the inclusion of detailed research with the narrative’s flow is crucial. It’s important not to overwhelm the reader with information, but rather to sprinkle it in naturally, as Adichie does with the Igbo language in Half of a Yellow Sun. Whether drawing from personal experience or extensive research, the key is to transport the reader to another time or place without losing the story’s core. When done well, this approach is incredibly effective and enriching for the reader.
Tracy Chevalier offers excellent advice on researching a novel by immersing herself in the subject matter. For instance, she has learned how to make glass beads, gaining practical insights that enhance her writing. This hands-on experience helps her describe the process more vividly, beyond what could be captured through mere reading or observation.
Characters can be challenging to create, especially when there are multiple ones in a story. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun is a great example of a novel with well-developed characters. The book is rich with detail, and Adichie manages to create several compelling characters, which is impressive given the book’s length.
In interviews, Adichie has mentioned she feels a connection to Ugwu, one of the main characters in the novel, despite seeming very different from him. This connection is evident in how well Adichie conveys Ugwu’s experience. For example, there's a passage where Ugwu, coming from a village, marvels at the unfamiliar luxuries in the professor's house. He observes details like the brightness of electric lights compared to palm oil lamps and the abundance of food, reflecting his amazement and curiosity.
Adichie blends very specific details—like the breadfruit tree and the preparation of local dishes—with universal feelings of wonder and curiosity. This approach allows readers to empathize deeply with Ugu's experience, even if they are from a different background. Through this combination of specific and universal elements, Adichie makes the setting come alive and fosters a strong connection between the reader and the character.
To me, the best writing is when a situation that’s completely different from your own becomes relatable, thanks to the writer's skill. Interestingly, the more specific the writer gets about another place—by observing minute details and making them vivid—the more universally relatable the story becomes. It’s a paradox where the more realized and detailed the description, the more it resonates on a universal level.
Most of the books we’ve discussed so far are written in the third person, but when a book is written in the first person and there’s a strong voice, it’s a real gift to the reader. Being in the company of that character, experiencing the story through their perspective, is a unique and powerful experience. I’m not sure how writers create such strong voices, but when it’s done well, it’s amazing.
Two books that immediately come to mind for their strong voices are I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith and The L-Shaped Room by Lynne Reid Banks. I Capture the Castle begins with one of the best opening lines: “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining board, which I've padded with our dog's blanket and the tea cozy.” You instantly know you’re going to love Cassandra, the narrator.
In The L-Shaped Room, the opening draws you in immediately: “There wasn’t much to be said for the place, really, but it had a roof over it and a door which locked from the inside, which was all I cared about just then.” This understated introduction makes you curious about the character—why is she so focused on the door? What’s her situation? The character is newly pregnant and in a tough spot, and as a reader, you quickly become invested in her story.
When a book has a strong voice and a compelling opening, it instantly gets the reader on its side. This connection allows the reader to follow the story wherever it goes and even overlook flaws. For example, in The L-Shaped Room, there’s some problematic racist language, which created a real dilemma for members of a book club I know. They struggled with the racism but still loved the main character, which led to a lot of discussion about how to reconcile those feelings. In the end, creating a strong voice from the very beginning is key to building a good character and engaging the reader.
The book Someone at a Distance by Dorothy Whipple, published by Persephone Books, is one of those novels that has a profound impact every time you read it. I’ve read it three, maybe four times, and each time, it puts me through an emotional wringer. Persephone Books mainly publishes works by women from the interwar years, and this novel is a favorite among its readers, who often feel a strong connection to the publisher’s catalog.
The story revolves around a middle-class suburban family after the war. The family's stability is shattered when the grandmother hires a young French woman as a companion. This woman gradually disrupts the family, eventually stealing the husband away. The reader knows early on that this will happen, yet Whipple masterfully draws out the process, step by painful step. The tension and inevitability of the unfolding events are almost unbearable, yet so cleverly executed that you can’t look away.
What stands out is how skillfully Whipple plots the story. The small, seemingly insignificant moments carry immense weight—much like the pivotal handkerchief in Othello. Here, it begins with a marron glacé. These tiny details are crafted so precisely that they drive the narrative forward with a sense of dread. There’s no need for shocking twists; the power lies in the slow, inevitable unraveling of events, keeping the reader in suspense until the very end.
For this to work, you must fully believe in the world Whipple creates. There can’t be any moments where you think, “That doesn’t make sense,” or, “They wouldn’t have done that.” The believability and immersion in the novel’s world are crucial to its impact, and Whipple accomplishes this brilliantly in Someone at a Distance.
As a reviewer, you often find yourself reading books you wouldn't normally choose. Sometimes you pitch a book you're eager to read, but other times a literary editor throws you a curveball. When that happens, you have to approach the book on its own terms, accepting whatever the author presents.
For example, Tracy Chevalier played with time in a unique way. The main character's timeline moved at a normal pace, while the rest of the world sped through centuries. It's unusual, but you have to trust the author's vision. Another book, Cecilia, which I reviewed for The Guardian, was intensely hyper-sensual with vivid bodily descriptions. It’s not something I’d typically be comfortable with, like a scene comparing the sounds of different people urinating, yet the book's intensity draws you in. Similarly, in Andrew O’Hagan’s Caledonian Road, the author confidently takes you through various social groups and locations in London, from squats with drill rappers to upscale parties. Despite the vast differences in setting, O’Hagan’s assured storytelling guides you seamlessly.
What unites these three very different books is the confidence of their authors. Whether it's O’Hagan’s exploration of London’s social landscape, Chevalier's manipulation of time, or the intense sensuality in Cecilia, each author presents their world unapologetically. This confidence is crucial; as a reader, you’re willing to follow the author’s lead, even when it takes you out of your comfort zone. As long as the writer commits fully to their narrative, the reader will trust them and stay engaged, no matter how unconventional the journey.