You Must Read “Grand” by Noelle McCarthy – Out Now!

Wednesday is about writing. Today it's a book review. One of the best books I'll read in 2022.

I’ve probably told you this at least one other time but a favourite thing to get to do – and it doesn’t happen often enough – is to buy a brand new book and read it that night. That whole thing. Maybe in a single sitting, or probably with a wee pause after digging in. A couple of sessions. The momentum of the writing just taking you with it. It’s exhilarating. And of course, it has to be the right kind of book. The wrong kind just wouldn’t take you with it. Couldn’t.

Last night I read Grand my Noelle McCarthy. It was available in shops just yesterday.

I had it planned. Strolled down to the store at lunchtime, secured my copy. Flipped eagerly through the first few pages straight away, made a decent dent in it when I first got home. After dinner and the dishes, I sat down with the book, a cup of tea, and some of my favourite reading music (various movie soundtracks) and I devoured every last word of one of the very best books I’ll read this year.

I should point out that I had this all planned.

McCarthy’s book has been spectacularly received. Much hype. All of it warranted. It is the must-read memoir for 2022.

Last week The Spinoff published an extraordinary review of Noelle’s book. I was already looking forward to reading it, but Catherine Woulfe’s thorough and ecstatic review (she is a brilliant reviewer of books) confirmed it as a must-read. I did the maths: Book arrives in store Tuesday. I’ll have a chance to buy it, possibly read it overnight for my Wednesday book/writing-focussed newsletter. Only potential hitch, the book would have to be good – as mentioned at the top – in order for me to nail it in one night.

I love it when a plan comes together…

Noelle McCarthy was born and raised in Ireland. She moved to New Zealand as an adult and found her way into broadcasting and journalism. She was a big deal. Column in the Herald. Her own summer show on RNZ as well as various segments and spots throughout the year, all of this on the back of working for bFM first.

But that is only a small part of the memoir; well it’s crucial – but it wouldn’t warrant the writing of a book.

The real story here is about the tension between McCarthy and her mother. And the real story there is the cruel gift of alcoholism.

Her “Mammy” is like the Angela’s Ashes version of Mommy Dearest; the Pamela Vorhees that cackles away over a sneaky lunchtime pint in the corner booth of the bar that will serve her. A pushchair beside her, the oldest kid (Noelle) allowed a raspberry and a couple of coins for the jukebox.

McCarthy paints a mood of weariness – but it’s never just grey. Her own world bursts with colours as she describes lovingly and movingly every sound and smell and vibrancy that lifts her up and out of the house, discovering music and books. And then boys.

It's such a thrilling first third – the Ireland years, the childhood, the coming of age. Mammy is brutal, punishing herself and impacting that upon her children. But Noelle buries her head in the book Dracula, excels at a school speech, loves writing essays and listens to R.E.M. and Tori Amos. She is breaking free of the bottle.

Until she finds herself at the bottom of it.

To Auckland, on a whim, and from working hospo to the broadcasting ascendence. She is charming and talented. She is a hit. She moves from volunteer status to paid staff at the student station, and from there to Radio New Zealand.

She is a party girl. She says yes to everything. She takes men home, she doesn’t always remember to take her handbag with her. She leaves memories and cares all over town and is falling. Falling…

The middle third of the book is as equally thrilling, as brilliantly written, but the stakes are higher. Mammy might not be mentioned quite as often, but we feel her presence. The shadow of her actions continuing to creep.

And then sobriety. Hard fought, necessary, eventually – as it always is – validating. Though the timeline leaps around a bit, and intentionally, the final third of the book is about McCarthy becoming a mother herself. She says goodbye to Mammy in order to become Mummy.

The writing throughout is subtle but also astonishing.

Every page has a gem. There are zingers, there are good chuckles. But there is such enormous heart. Huge feels. And tragedy clings like a hangover. There is a deft ability to channel the past, to summon the courage of that moment, to project the energy that was required to move through these moments.

She paints hangovers so perfectly. A hideous soul-frost of niggling torment. She remembers the energy and power given to her from partying, the uplift was its own reward, even as it was so clearly a search for escape. And ironically its own form of shackles.

The way this book pulls you along with it is like a magic trick.

With writing it’s also about what is not said. McCarthy doesn’t name names. She won’t. This is her story. Not the other children (her siblings). Not the bit-part players. Not the Kiwi-Famous names she encounters on the radio, in the bars, at the parties. You will recognise some people, but you won’t have them named. You will hear how Noelle experienced things. Her voice. Her mood. Her memories.

Speaking of what is not said, McCarthy barely mentions the plagiarism scandal that was derailing to her credibility. Snapped passing off essays without attribution as part of her RNZ shows. Explained away here in a couple of sentences as a by-product of barely-functioning, turning up with the shakes and getting a job done. That she doesn’t unpack it further here, nor in the interviews accompanying the book’s release is all the proof of lasting shame we need.

So, back to Noelle McCarthy’s amazing prose: Her recollection of giving birth and the first day (and lingering) fears of being so new to something and so inexperienced at the vital role of keeping another human alive is something every parent will recognise.

There is tenderness and toughness in near equal measures to power this book. Those qualities have powered McCarthy through her life, through her brilliant broadcasting career and now into this exciting new phase of her writing life. They are also the qualities – albeit never as equal in the measures – that powered her Mammy. That allowed her family and these recollections of them to survive.

Grand: Becoming My Mother’s Daughter is a powerful, beautiful read. One of the best books I’ll get to all year. I’m so very sure of that. An amazing piece of writing. I want to read it again. Almost straight away. But it’s sent me to re-read Dracula first…

Need more of a push towards buying this book?

Here's an extract for you.