Fiction Uncovered 2013 is no literary John Peel sessions

Do we need yet another self-serving literary prize list? The Fiction Uncovered 2013 list purports to give prominence to promising and innovative writers that have been overlooked elsewhere, but the many of the books it has selected are anything but, write

We’ve got literary lists and prizes for everything. Now we’ve got Fiction Uncovered 2013: a promotion for books which wouldn’t look out of place on other middle-brow prize lists, but didn’t make them. If there is room for another list, it’s one that wears its "un-" prefix unapologetically: an alternative list of brilliant books that would never be considered for the big prizes or summer reads round-ups. This isn’t it. But then, the Booker has at least pretended to get more interesting recently. Last year it flaunted Will Self’s Umbrella, before giving the prize to Hilary Mantel again. This year it put three debut novels on the long list, though Colm Toibin will win, because he’s due the prize. If the major prizes are notionally looking elsewhere, what happens to all the worthy, heart-felt, innocuous and uncharismatic books? The one about a west London couple who discussed pension plans on their first date, or the one where a woman writes an account of her parents’ relationship?

The Fiction Uncovered promotion is confused and euphemistic. The packaging would have us believe that it is giving us eight books by Britain’s finest writers, but is in fact promoting mid-list authors that the judges believe to have been unfairly overlooked, either critically or by prize committees. What is also apparent is that the judges want to award a writer for career achievement and previous, better books, but has to push his current book in the promotion. Does every author deserve recognition for taking part, for competence? The Fiction Uncovered list seems to perpetuate a cycle of deserving, whereby writers who have been praised in the past are seen to deserve praise even when their books aren’t up to scratch. This effectively keeps writers who might deserve "uncovering" covered. It makes you long for the sort of thing it isn’t: a kind of literary John Peel thing which genuinely does "uncover" promising and innovative writers. The only clear rule in the rubric of Fiction Uncovered is that debut writers aren’t eligible. Fair enough: first-timers traditionally generate goodwill, buzz, and an optimistic marketing budget. They are also likely to get passed over for review in favour of established authors. The better books on the list corroborate this, having been reviewed extensively and positively. So why do they need this promotion?

Nell Leyshon’s The Colour of Milk, a book about a teenage farm girl in the early nineteenth century who learns to read from the King James Bible, is the best on the list. It has rightly been praised by pretty much every paper and magazine, more than one comparing Leyshon to Hardy. ("The best bits of Tess of the D’Urbervilles" was what one paper said – the best bits!) Rupert Thomson’s Secrecy and James Meek’s The Heart Broke In have also been highly praised. They were bound to be good, at least technically, because these authors have had the most practice. The Heart Broke In was even shortlisted for the Costa Prize last year: one of about three major prizes in the country. You’d be forgiven for wondering why, after that, it needs uncovering, and whether this list is doing anything that hasn’t been done elsewhere.

Nikita Lalwani’s The Village seems to be the only well-reviewed book which deserves further "uncovering", as it inverts a usual middle-brow prize contender: the Brit abroad moral travelogue. Ray, a BBC camerawoman with an Indian background, is making a documentary about an Indian open prison. As she records the inmates’ stories, her colleagues pressure her to emotionally exploit her subjects for dramatic viewing. Ray finds herself "fetishising" images of her own hand holding fennel seeds, affecting an Indian accent on English words, and ashamed of the way her film-maker’s visual sense patronises and exoticises her surroundings. It is a sophisticated antidote to the gawping narrative optimism displayed by most prize-friendly books about other continents.     

The other books, whose authors have been reviewed well in the past, are either unremarkable or inconsistent. Worryingly, this indicates that the list is there to comfort writers who haven’t fulfilled their promise. Isn’t this an insult to the better books on the list, to be included in what is effectively a consolation prize? It is hard not to admire Anthony Cartwright’s How I Killed Margaret Thatcher and Lucy Cadwell’s All The Beggars Riding as stories. The former is a publican’s retrospective of a childhood in the West Midlands under Thatcher. The latter is a woman’s investigation of her parents’ relationship – her father had another family – and her attempt to write her mother’s memoirs. They are nice books, carefully put together, but pedestrian. If their counterparts strangely didn’t appear on prize lists this year, they’ll no doubt always have a place in book clubs.

Amy Sackville’s Orkney, an allusive, mythic novel about a fruity old English Lit don who takes his ex-student bride to honeymoon on an Orkney island, is too imperfect to sit confidently on a prize list. The success of this sort of thing is down to style. At her best, Sackville is a fine pupil of John Banville: someone else who likes writing arch old dons on the shore. The rest of the time her writing is bargain-Banville: too dreamy and quaint, and at its worst slippery with unsayable alliteration (‘sit down safe within my fortifications in the forecourt’) and unfortunate wordplay ("even tinned custard, in her custody. . .") Yes, the narrator is intentionally, playfully verbose and says things like "argent" and "whence". He’d have also spent his life striking ugly sentences out of students’ essays. Sackville has a good eye, though, and will hopefully write something very good and innovative soon. This isn’t her at her best, though.

Niven Govinden’s Black Bread White Beer was literally uncovered by this promotion, and wouldn’t have been available in print otherwise. This is the prize’s most admirable gesture and its biggest mistake. Amal and Claud, two thirty-something professionals who live in Richmond and sing Blur in the car, have an early miscarriage which undoes their relationship. They pretend they are still pregnant to Claud’s parents in the country: routine provincial bigots who think all Eastern Europeans are prostitutes and have a go at making curry when their Indian in-laws visit.

This book raises an issue that isn’t discussed enough, but is often a fault of book-clubby novels. Realist books built around a quietly affecting human tragedy can not only fail to be affecting or "real", but be tacky as well. There is a charity-mugging element at play: readers might feel guilty for being unmoved, or that they owe the events portrayed a certain solemnity. It isn’t that Govinden wants to make us sentimental. Amal, who isn’t the problem, is most sympathetic when thinking unkind thoughts and displacing his grief onto innocent bystanders in a village tea-shop. But Claude is so meagrely evoked that her miscarriage and its attendant sadness is trivialised. Perhaps it’s the way Govinden has her and all his characters speak, which is both unconvincing and clichéd – full of lazy sarcasm and throwaway rhetorical questions, like a script that hasn’t yet been read aloud by actors: “Read between the lines, Amal. Are you really that stupid?’ “Thanks for that, ‘Mal. You’re doing a really good job of making me feel better.” (Characters refer to each other by name more often than necessary, as if reminding themselves of their existence.) Why any discerning prize committee would favour this book, or actively introduce it into circulation, is baffling.

Paradoxically, readers still look to prize lists for non-bureaucratic recommendations. If there’s one thing we don’t need another prize or list for, it’s unremarkable books which probably don’t give the best impression of their authors. 

Does every author deserve recognition for taking part? Photo: Getty
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Why does food taste better when we Instagram it?

Delay leads to increased pleasure when you set up a perfect shot of your dinner.

Been on holiday? Take any snaps? Of course you did – but if you’re anything like me, your friends and family didn’t make it into many of them. Frankly, I can only hope that Mr Whippy and I will still be mates in sixty years, because I’m going to have an awful lot of pictures of him to look back on.

Once a decidedly niche pursuit, photographing food is now almost as popular as eating it, and if you thought that the habit was annoying at home, it is even worse when it intrudes on the sacred peace of a holiday. Buy an ice cream and you’ll find yourself alone with a cone as your companion rushes across a four-lane highway to capture his or hers against the azure sea. Reach for a chip before the bowl has been immortalised on social media and get your hand smacked for your trouble.

It’s a trend that sucks the joy out of every meal – unless, that is, you’re the one behind the camera. A new study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology suggests that taking pictures of food enhances our pleasure in it. Diners at the food court of a farmers’ market in Philadelphia were asked either to photograph their meal or to eat “as you normally would”, then were questioned about how they found it. Those in the photography group reported that not only did they enjoy their meal more, but they were “significantly more immersed in the experience” of eating it.

This backs up evidence from previous studies, including one from this year in the Journal of Consumer Marketing, which found that participants who had been asked to photograph a red velvet cake – that bleeding behemoth of American overindulgence – later rated it as significantly tastier than those who had not.

Interestingly, taking a picture of a fruit salad had no effect on its perceived charms, but “when descriptive social norms regarding healthy eating [were] made salient”, photographing these healthier foods did lead to greater enjoyment. In other words, if you see lots of glossy, beautifully lit pictures of chia seed pudding on social media, you are more likely to believe that it’s edible, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
This may seem puzzling. After all, surely anything tastes better fresh from the kitchen rather than a protracted glamour shoot – runny yolks carefully split to capture that golden ooze, strips of bacon arranged just so atop plump hemispheres of avocado, pillowy burger buns posed to give a glimpse of meat beneath. It is hardly surprising that 95 million posts on Instagram, the photo-sharing site, proudly bear the hashtag #foodporn.

However, it is this delay that is apparently responsible for the increase in pleasure: the act of rearranging that parsley garnish, or moving the plate closer to the light, increases our anticipation of what we are about to eat, forcing us to consider how delicious it looks even as we forbid ourselves to take a bite until the perfect shot is in the bag. You could no doubt achieve the same heightened sense of satisfaction by saying grace before tucking in, but you would lose the gratification that comes from imagining other people ogling your grilled Ibizan sardines as they tuck in to an egg mayonnaise at their desk.

Bear in mind, though, that the food that is most successful on Instagram often has a freakish quality – lurid, rainbow-coloured bagel-croissant hybrids that look like something out of Frankenstein’s bakery are particularly popular at the moment – which may lead to some unwise menu choices in pursuit of online acclaim.

On the plus side, if a diet of giant burgers and salted-caramel lattes leaves you feeling queasy, take heart: if there is one thing that social media likes more than #avotoast, it is embarrassing oversharing. After a week of sickening ice-cream shots, a sickbed selfie is guaranteed to cheer up the rest of us. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser