I finished “Diamond Star Halo“ last week and have been lost for words to describe how amazed I am about this author’s writing style. This book is one of my favorite adult fiction books so far, along with “The Host” by Stephenie Meyer. Both books are an inspiration for me and Tiffany Murray has, without any doubt, the secret, magical touch I wish for my own novel.
“Diamond Star Halo” was built with original characters that are magical and raw-realistic at the same time and this can only be done by a very good writer at the top of her game. Tiffany Murray uses two of my favorite writing tools mingled along the storyline: metaphors and a rich-action plot where even the farm animals, the horses and the leaves take on an important spot in almost every scene.
Good books are always the best teachers.
After Elvis, we found Fred Connor.
It was a day when the beech leaves were just thinking of colour and change; a day when the warm rain that pounded Rockfarm bubbled and spat. It was a day like any other day when we found Fred Connor wrapped up in a red cloak on one of our guest beds.
This baby was almost breathless; and he was the smallest I’d ever seen. Mum had us kids huddle round that piss-yellow candlewick cover to really take him in, and when she touched Fred’s forehead with her cold wedding band, he opened his black eyes. I didn’t understand what she meant when she squealed, ‘Kids, come look! He’s part seal-pup, part bloody Heathcliff.’
I do now.
Of course we all knew where Fred had come from, and it wasn’t from the birds and the bees and the shaky knees of our parents: our dad hand’t picked him up, an urchin, one dark and stormy night, and Fred didn’t fly half-cocked from Never Never Land, either. No, Fred Connor arrived at our farm weeks before with an American band called Tequilla. Though Fred didn’t arrive on his own two feet: Fred Connor kind of floated.
This is where I’ll start then, though the truth is I don’t know where to begin because I came out backwards.
‘Arse-wise,’ Nana Lew calls it; so maybe the story begins with Rockfarm: this home I was born to, this recording studio built by my freckle-handed father on his own Welsh mud.
Rockfarm: a place where rock stars in sunglasses roam, a place where farm cats have toes that run up their legs like pegs on a line.
By Tiffany Murray, in “Diamon Star Halo”