I’ve recently discovered a new term, and it describes Helen McClory’s writing perfectly: mythic realism. Aptly titled On the Edges of Vision, this collection offers a precipitous sense of standing on the edge of something, of glimpsing a view of a world just like the one we live in, only with extraordinary neighbours. These creatures are familiar from ancient tales yet fresh on the page, mingling with everyday folk.
There’s a hint of warning swimming through the words, a reminder that venturing out after dark isn’t always a good idea, a hint that the things we fear aren’t always the right things – that dread, and death, can rush up from unexpected sources.
There’s such a pace to McClory’s writing that you may find yourself careering from start to end, crashing through the undergrowth before halting, blood shrill in your ears, at the cliff-edge, wondering why there’s nothing ahead but dizzying emptiness. Continue reading