By Kathryn Jones

Does the title actually relate to anything in A River of Stones? Is it a Mormon apologetic? Is it autobiographical? (The standard publisher’s comment is contradicted by the author’s own disclaimer, and more confusion arises as her name is spelled differently on consecutive pages before the novel proper begins – sadly, not the only typographical error…) Is it written as if from inside the mind of Samantha as she lives her life-without-her-father aged 10-12 (as the narrative style and sparsity of framing voices after the first fifteen pages suggest), or is it all meant to have been filtered and edited by a more adult mind, the protagonist in later life (as the first two sentences of the novel and the awkward, intruding conclusion of p.50 indicate)? That last dichotomy lies behind many of the incongruities of the work, and just how charitable an evaluation one reaches will be based on how much one is prepared to allow A River of Stones to oscillate between the poles. Short paragraphs draw the reader on and reflect the shorter attention span of children. Non sequiturs in the narrator’s analysis and some breathless passages mimic childhood convincingly, but adult vocabulary occasionally intrudes (‘wretched’, ‘basic needs’). Some information is released subtly, such as the explanation for June accepting Samantha as a friend so easily, which keeps the reader alert, but sometimes things are forced – like the cliché of the apparently scary reclusive neighbour who lives in an old house, which is rushed, and treated in the limpest fashion imaginable. Many of the metaphors and similies simply fail through trying too hard (an adult trying too hard to be a child?) – just read any few pages and you’ll get the idea! ‘I… finally gave up [resisting her brother and step-brother], breathing like a prisoner who wanted her escape, but would have to suffer a few years longer.’ Characteristic lines include the redundancy-laden, ‘…that Bruce had obviously kicked with his foot’, and Sam’s announcement that her ‘butt felt like a frozen icicle’. In a number of places, I simply could not understand some of the circumstantial information, or even some sentences at climactic points (where does ‘Daddy’ come from on p.45?). All these tendencies and devices to different degrees may demonstrate a sympathy with idioms of childhood and loose spoken discourse, and with how a child might approach the process of recalling and writing. Or they may indicate poor construction at both a macro and a micro level. Of course, the undemanding compromises in the style (‘realistic’ dialogue only when it suits, simplicity, etc.) make for easier reading, which may suit the target audience better than it suits an old curmudgeon… 

Kath[e?]ryn Jones has tried to say a lot – dealing with tricky subjects and piling on intriguing and endearing episodes in this slice of her protagonist’s life – but she has ended up not saying very much at all. Sometimes the pace is simply too fast (lore about creepy neighbours is only frightening if it is given a chance to build up and prey upon the imagination in ‘normal’ settings, while the final twist of the work is served half-baked). We do not get a chance to indulge a wealth of period detail that makes Laura Ingalls Wilder, Louisa May Allcott or Harper Lee so compelling. The tone is uncertain: neither twee like the nineteenth century writers, nor heroic like Lee, nor even cynical in a ‘modern’ fashion, but somewhere bland in between them all. There is no unifying principle, either of plot development, consistent characterisation, or richness of description. Reading Jones’ debut one cannot help but feel that although it has a certain solidity it is a composition of ideas and segments that don’t quite hold together – immiscible bits and pieces that glide and stumble over the reader rather like a river. A river of… well, stones.

~Review by James Williams