The Drowning of Arthur Braxton. Caroline Smailes

       Introduction

      Dear Reader,

      READ. THIS. BOOK.

      I am told by the various desperate internet searches I conducted late at night for ‘h0W d0 U WRiTe a BlO0DY FOREWORD??!!?’ that my purpose in life for the next few minutes is to convince you to read this book. So read it. There. I’m done! Time for a well-earned break, don’t you think?

      Maybe not …

      Over the course of this introduction, I will try to explain why you should read this book but I mean … you bloody bought the thing! Why wouldn’t you read it?! Don’t you want your money’s worth?! WHAT IS MY PURPOSE HERE?!

      Okay calm. I feel like having an internal written crisis over my own existence won’t better your chances of perusing this book so here goes …

      I first met Caroline Smailes, the author of this here wonderful novel, on September 5th 2014 in Highbury Fields, London. I was wearing an awful bandana in a last-ditch attempt to look vaguely artsy - an area in which, aesthetically at least, I am sorely lacking. I was nervous. So nervous in fact that my witless 20-year-old self thought he could woo a fantastic writer with a simple slice of carrot cake from a tearoom around the corner. Why was I prepared to embarrass myself like this, you ask? Well, because I’d fallen in love with Caroline’s book, and I wanted to convince her to let me and my friend Josh make it into a film. (Somehow, we managed it!)

      I’d fallen in love with The Drowning of Arthur Braxton because, as I had discovered while frantically devouring the book on a flight across Australia, it’s not like anything else I’ve ever read. Its 371 pages unfurl as an entrancing, hyper-real, tender modern fairy tale, a vivid picture of modern life and its idiosyncrasies which simultaneously retells and interweaves a series of Greek myths. The characters are unforgettable, partly due to the extensive research Caroline did with children and teenagers, and partly because (as you can tell when reading it) so much of this novel is so personal to her own experience. It’s real, or at least elements of it must be and they are brought together in a package which I know could not have been delivered better by anybody else.

      One of the things that spoke to me most is Braxton’s honest depiction of teenage boys. Let’s face it: teenage boys are, for want of a better word, yucky. They’re often portrayed in quite a sanitised way in YA books, but Arthur’s internal monologue is unflinchingly potty-mouthed and sex-obsessed. Caroline has, whether she likes this element of Arthur’s character or not, captured the male teenage condition like no other YA writer. But despite his filthy psychobabble, Arthur is always sympathetic, a good kid confused by puberty, the pressures of patriarchal society and, ultimately, his desperation to fit in.

      And then there’s Laurel: the novel’s secondary protagonist. From the title of the book you wouldn’t even know she exists, but there’s nothing I can say to capture how much love I have for her character. Her story is one of heartbreak and loss and pain, but it is perfect. She is perfect.

      I think the reason why I (and so many other readers) have found Arthur and Laurel so compelling is simple. It’s because Caroline truly understands young people. When I wandered into the aforementioned Highbury Fields, bandanered and bewildered, she did not look down on me. She did not prejudge me because I had a business strategy based on cake. She had faith in me, and she trusted my creative vision, even though I was 20 years old and nervous. She understood. And that’s why Arthur and Laurel are so real. Because Caroline understands the power of speaking truthfully to her readers. Her stories and characters reek of reality; they stink of anecdote and experience.