I’ve been pleasantly surprised that all in all my reading list was a lot of fun this year and I admonish myself for falling into the trap of dwelling on the negative (a trait I’m afraid to say comes oh too easily for me). I think it partly didn’t help that I set myself a reading goal of one-hundred books this year; I splutter with a smug chortle at the naive wishful thinking of end-of-last year’s me, for setting that ludicrous goal! There were also a few books I found pretty shockingly bad and some I had really truly wanted to love but couldn’t get on board with (Martyr I desperately wanted to love but couldn't connect with, and the less said about The Ministry of Time, the better). And so the lesson here is this: a year is a long time and within it it is oh so easy to focus on the grim, and allowing that to encapsulate your whole life synopsis, but if you take some time to really reflect on things, you’ll realise how much joy and light existed between the glum, or in actual fact outshone any darkness altogether.

Reflecting back on my year through books has helped re-jiggle my mind to focus on the truly magical year I had, I’m waving goodbye to 2025 with a sense of nostalgic sadness, knowing in years to come I’ll think back on this year a truly a key moment in my life, a trajectory where things pivoted in the most glorious ways. I forgot, through the foray of day to day mundanity and life admin/wedding planning stress, that I’ve been so blessed to have a truly gorgeous year - in more ways than just reading. I’ve gained new nieces to cherish, I was gifted the opportunity to leave my corporate job to pursue a writing career and the icing on this delicately decadent fondant of a cake, I got engaged to my love. All of which induces a fizzy gleeful light in my belly which buzzes with excitement each time I think about these (and many other) precious memories. The key thing I’ve learned is to make sure to pause and actually think about these moments, to not let them fade and obscure as time trickles on and the passing of days eat away at these lovely memories. It’s become clear to me that this is why documenting one’s life is fundamental, whether it’s through the books you’ve read, pictures of your meals, videos of blowing out birthday candles, reels of running with your best friend into the freezing waves of the sea, selfies of holding your baby niece whilst a bbq is getting going, or a carousel of your month’s best bits - even if the best bit was just a dazzling sunset. Much like keeping score on GoodReads or adding to a physical pile made up of ‘done’ reads, it’s good to have these moments of your life collected and waiting for you to come back to at year’s end and see that each month, each day, has had pockets of gems sparkling within, signalling a life well enjoyed.

So what are these fantastic books of 2025 I hear you cry!? Well, it’s humorous to think that this ol’ sourpuss miss actually struggled to whittle down my reads to a Top 5, but somehow I managed to and so here I present to you my best of 2025. These are books I haven’t been able to get off my mind, and I think the fact I forgot I read them only this year is indicative to how brilliant they really are. They’ve wormed within my subconscious and have elements I often ponder on each day, giving me the illusion that I read them many moons ago, or they somehow have been part of me all my life. Some I believe have been sitting dormant, just waiting for me to tumble into and absorb with my very being. Some have opened my mind to new writing styles and beautifully heart-wrenching topics and genres. Whereas one, in particular, I simply want to gobble up the pages because the writing is so gut-punchingly gorgeous I think I actually might fancy the pants off the book (unsurprisingly I’ve ranked that my top book of the year).

2025 Top 5 Wonderwahl Best Books:

1. The Safekeep by Yael van der Wouden

2. My Husband (a VERY close second, could almost be joint number one to be honest)

3. The Master And Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov (I want to collect and own every copy of this book!)

4. The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

5. Reservoir Bitches by Dahlia de la Cerda

I’d like to leave with some honourable mentions to the books which I cut from my Top 5, but were nonetheless brilliant reads which I highly recommend you read too!

6. The Wedding People by Alison Espach

7. Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson

8. Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier

9. Frankensiten by Mary Shelley

10. The Death Of Bunny Monroe by Nick Cave

And that’s a wrap of 2025; I already know next year is going to be a whirlwind! Thank you to all my subscribers for all your support with my publication this year, I hope you stick with me as I journey through all the highs and lows of another year, making sure to collect my gems of joy along the way. Happy New Year!

Maybe it’s the Dickens effect, but there’s something about Christmastime that has the ghost of the past visiting me each year. I don’t mean in a haunting of my own past, although that is somewhat inevitable around the festive period, but I feel an urge to gorge myself on history.

I’ve been a great lover of history for as long as I can remember, there is something about stories from the past which captured me completely from a very young, impressionable age. I remember vividly, my first year at school, in some kind of drama-cum-history lesson, me and my classmates were tasked with the reenactment of Boudicca and her army marching down Watling Street for the final decisive battle against the Roman invaders, which inevitably ended in Boudicca’s heroic martyrdom. Heavy stuff for 5-year-olds, but it was one of the most electrifying moments of my life. I never felt more alive, being part of this play-pretend/educational dramatisation of such a wild and prominent moment in history. Never had I felt so connected (a kind of spiritual awakening) to being human, to being alive, playing a part of a wider story, a story of humanity, of the land, of ancestors, which was even bigger than I ever could’ve imagined. Was it a child-like wonder, hyperactive-imagination, or something genuinely transcendent? I guess it’s up to interpretation, but what I do know is this: as I feverishly watched, with a twinge of envy, the popular girl of my class (who’s name was something like Bryony or Chantel or Rachel and whom our teacher saw fit to bestow such an honourable position to) portray the fearsome Boudicca and gulp down tragically the invisible vial of poison with her tiny hand, thus becoming the mistress of her own dire fate, a last final fierce defiance against the Roman conquerers, I was hooked on history, and the stories of the people who make it.

Perhaps it’s my age, but when I think of Christmas (and what makes me feel Christmassy) my mind always craves history-centric entertainment. I’m very picky about the exact historical moments which illicit Noel-vibes. When I want to snuggle down on a cold December eve, my search is mainly limited to old 80s British TV & film nostalgia, think Monty Python’s Life of Brian or Black Adder. Now maybe this is because I caught them on an initial rerun during my childhood and so it brings back feelings of being a kid again (something Christmas conjures within us all), and perhaps Life of Brian could be argued as definitely a Christmas themed film, but what of Black Adder? Why do I have this urge to see Baldrick bumbling and Queenie dictating in her signature whine whilst munching on my first, slightly warmed up and slavered in double cream, mince pie of the season? It is surely the historic genre that warms my cockles, to see characters don a lacy ruff or a fanciful doublet just makes my heart glow.

I’ve begun decking my halls and so of course I've dived right back into The Rest is History, a podcast I had taken a break from until the good-tidings had once again arrived. In the past week alone I’ve binge-listened to their series the rise of Queen Elizabeth I (the Tudors and Charles II are firmly in the belongs-to-Christmas-time-camp for me, I’m looking at my copy of Forever Amber and considering this as my final read of the year!) and their two recent series on World War I & II. These aren’t the only wars which give me festive-feels, even the Cold War with it’s clandestine nature, snooping about in bitterly chilly nights, trench coats and the fraught global political game of chess that is just a strike of a match away from imploding (the only kind of spy story I can endure) brings forth a certain seasonal greeting. An author embedded fondly in my mind for these particular historic eras is Ken Follett. I’ve always found his books to not only be entertaining and dripping in historical knowledge (I get a certain, very nerdy, thrill when I recognise a portrayal of an actual historical piece of trivia I know) but incredibly accessible to read, even if you think you aren’t a historic-fiction fan, I think you’ll love his books. Another excellent author with a similar take on history is Kristin Hannah, both her and Follett capture brilliantly the plight of the everyday person during key historical times.

I’m also charging through a series on the poetically-fervent and dramatically melancholic Admiral Nelson, who’s scandalous personal life and legendary naval feats feels me with much glee; there’s something about these Georgians, so full of ennui and wistful lust that I can’t help but feel a warm festive glow in my belly when I’m thrown into their world.

And while this period of history is incredibly Christmassy to me, perhaps a less educational and more entertaining fictional style is required, so I offer up the Russian point of view of the Napoleon War in the form of Tolstoy’s War & Peace. Okay I know, I know, this is literally the poster child for dense, thick literature but it is a fiction that is dripping in reflective social commentary of Russia during the turn of the 18th century and devastating historical events, which act as a backdrop to the tale’s themes of family, love, tragedy and sacrifice and the strive to find purpose, a meaning in life, and ultimately finding it in loved ones and legacy through one’s own family and friends…what more of a classic Christmas tale could you ask for?! There is even plenty of snowy wintery weather!
It feels like a literary feat every book lover must tackle, and one I have been daring myself to do for many years, however if, like me, the heft of it is a little too intimidating then the BBC adaptation from 2016 is a beautiful retelling. Not to get too involved in the recent Tarantino debate, but Paul Dano is so earnest and well-suited as Pierre (the good-natured if naive, young, idealist count). I think of his and Lilly James’ (Natasha) sweet, tender onscreen chemistry often, and long to get back to them each and every blustery December - not to mention visually the production and costume design is a gorgeous dream. If you are fancying a book challenge though, I can’t think of a better time to try and tackle such a book. Imagine, during the time-warp period between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, immersing yourself into an easy 1,2096 page(!) classical Russian literature - I reckon it’s doable.

Possibly the closest and most logical period of history to align with Christmas is of course the Victorian era. For me, Christmas is re-watching A Muppets Christmas Carol for the umpteenth time while wrapping up presents with my sister (lamenting at the obfuscation of the song: When Love Is Gone, whilst also secretly pleased to not be put through the heartache of it again, remembering how traumatised we both were having been subjected to it on our old VHS tape) and ending up teary-eyed every time by Scrooge’s heartfelt redemption, opening himself up to love once more. While this is an obvious Christmas themed film (although it being set in Victorian London still solidifies my argument that it is, in fact, historical fiction that makes for a festive experience), my most loved film of all at Christmastime is Casablanca. Not one inch of Christmas-cheer within it and yet, it’s my go to holiday film and never fails to put me in the festive spirit. The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society is another go to film this time of year, which makes me think of the books I used to re-read each year when I was a teenager, which all tended to be set during British wartime. Books by the likes of Michelle Morgan (author of Goodnight, Mister Tom), were particular favourites of mine (they are possibly my most well-thumbed and battered copies sitting on my bookshelf), most notably: Back Home and A Little Love Song, both having a combination of classic war spirit and determined young women and girls full of gumption, stole my heart. I guess there’s just something about mid-20th century defiance against the Nazi’s that really puts a sparkle in my month.

My argument is not entirely skewed by a sense romanticism of the past either, the level of comfort I get at seeing old clips of Horrible History episodes is perhaps shared by many, but not so much as by my brother who can go toe to toe with me on all the facts (and the songs), and is proof that the depravity is an insatiable part of learning about the past. History’s darkness lends itself perfectly to the festive period, something Sarah Clegg recognised and delves into in her book The Dead of Winter. Folk-lore tales are numerous around Christmas/Winter Solstice so, in fact, facing head on at the horror of the past makes for a yule-tide tradition. If a historic-horror resonates more with you this Christmas then Starve Acre takes on a folk legend/curse which captures a married couple who have tragically lost their young son, making this a perfect ghostly, horror-fuelled, historical festive read.

Not all historic eras, of course, are for Christmas consumption. I would like to say I made up the rules but I think you would agree that other historical periods just suit other times of the year. For example, to name but a few, American Civil War and Ancient Rome belong to Autumn, Ancient Egypt and Greek Mythology are for Summer. It’s not me, it’s just the laws of seasons.

On the face of it, it may seem that weather is the main contributing factor, and I won’t lie, I am a seasonal reader so setting does play a huge part. And part of it is that this time of year brings out an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, the question I ponder is whether this is organic or ultimately a feeling fed by the consumerist giant; the influence of BBC specials, John Lewis or Sainsbury’s adverts (I still think of one with soldiers meeting over the trenches on Christmas Day for a game of football and a day of peace). Or is it the nature of the season, where hibernation and long dark nights induces this kind of reflective calling - a tentative, pink chapped hand bundled in mittens, reaching out for the past - Charles Dickens felt this for sure. A time when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest, a festival season which is shared (in whichever celebratory way) by a millennia of people throughout history.
History is made up of those before us building a story, a culture and tradition, of people overcoming great tragedies, braving great feats, of finding peace and love within a community, and so to look back at all these things, during a time of year full of tradition and ceremony, just makes sense. It could be argued that media feeds culture, but I choose not to believe it in the case of Christmas, sure media and corporate marketing perpetuates the feeling, but it’s the instinctual fundamental belief which drives the magic. We only have to look at this year’s media sensation of having a ‘Little Women Christmas’, as proof of our need to connect with the past. So many of us have strived for a less consumerist holiday and have craved making and building things with nature, repurposing scraps, sealing with love and doing these things together with those dear to us - a need to capture the Christmas spirit by rejecting modern fancies and recapturing what this time of year was always originally intended for. This is what I believe the meaning to be behind all the multi-coloured paper chains and garlands of dried oranges.

And so, with all this obsessive history madness in mind, here is the full list my Christmas Syllabus, bound to get you feeling festive in the most subtle way imaginable:

Classic Literature:

• War & Peace by Leo Tolstoy

• Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Historical Non-Fiction:

• Miss Dior by Jodi Picoult

• Paris ‘44 by Patrick Bishop

Historical Fiction:

• Edge of Eternity AND/OR Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett

• Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor

• Still Life by Sarah Winman

• Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell

Creepy Folklore:

• Starve Acre by Andrew Micheal Hurley

• The Dead of Winter by Sarah Clegg

Perhaps, on reflection, my insistence that historical fiction/non-fiction is indeed in the Christmas spirit, is nothing more than evidence that my gifting guide for family and friends has likely been a wish list of historical genre books. It has to be said a lot of the syllabus was gifted to me as presents…

However, if my wish list this year is anything to go by then 2025 is an exception to the rule, because my list is clearly made up of books to be read over the Easter holidays...

Here’s hoping I’ve placed in your mind a fair argument for historical entertainment being the ultimate Christmas past-time, or else I’ve only succeeded in highlighting to you my utter romantic and morbid obsession with the past. I’m happy with that outcome either way.
Merry Christmas to all, however you may enjoy it!

Today a plume of turmeric puffed in the air and stained my top like liquid gold, I found my blue steel pasta maker (used once) haphazardly balanced upon a tulip vase at the very back corner of the cupboard, and the dreaded ‘messy’ draw now has some semblance of order - that is all to say, the day I carved out for writing has ended very productively for the random household chores of yesteryear, but I’ve not much to show for completing (or even starting) any actual writing projects. At least I can find the blade attachment for the whiz banger now, which I never use due to its lingering garlic taste from one homemade pesto recipe…

This week marks the two-month anniversary of leaving my corporate job to pursue my dream of a writing career, and this will be my first official article written since that date. Never mind any sort of poetry, nor short story I promised myself I would dedicate my newfound freedom to. I’ve struggled to actually get any sort of metaphorical or physical pen to paper. I seem to find productive solace in ‘planning’; I have an abundance of newly purchased, beautifully designed notebooks and planners full to the brim with ideas and well-intentioned planned-out weeks, but besides looking gorgeous stacked up beside my laptop, I’ve yet to see any execution of their inners materialise in any meaningful way. I find the act of stumbling across and purchasing a notebook inspirational up until a point - the point of actually writing and then I lose all gusto.

What has become disappointingly clear since becoming self-employed (or self-volunteered since I’m not actually earning anything at present), is that working for yourself means you have to actually be the boss of holding accountability of yourself. Taking on the role both creative mastermind and taskmaster is a tough balance and the worst bit is I have no one to moan about the boss to besides myself, which ends up being this odd inversion exercise ending in an ouroboros of chastising myself and bemoaning myself.

In my defence, I had no idea that leaving my 9-5 world would also coincide with getting engaged and now needing to plan a 2026 wedding and thus, I’ve practically turned amateur wedding planner (thank God for my Papier wedding diary).

Besides this nuptial side-hustle, chasing the muse has become my full-time job. In some respects, that is what I need right now. It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to fully submerge into being creative, that I need some time to be inspired again.

I think part of my problem has been attempting to take on too many projects, whilst also stuffing myself into a singular creative-outlet box. Writing is paramount to me, my next career goal, however it is not my only form of expression. I should tackle whatever inspired project I concoct up at the very moment it strikes, but instead I have avoided other pieces of myself: drawing, knitting, baking, crafting, all because my social presence demands I brand myself, and in branding myself I must be consistent in one or two things. But honestly sometimes, I can’t bring myself to write a single line. And so, the list of ‘want to dos’ grows like a weed harbouring the corner of my creative brain and I sit paralysed, avoiding doing anything that isn’t to do with writing, because if I’m not writing then I am failing. I’m finding this mindset is stifling more than anything else.

So, it’s time to redirect the inspiration, to seek the writing muse, to hunt in all corners, whether that’s through books, style or my current fixation: home decor. I’ve found myself drawn to the idea of patina decor, patina being the natural act of materials weathering and tearing through well love or age, like the oxidation of copper which coats objects malachite; a green that not only evokes the brilliance of nature but the passage of time, giving things beauty and gravitas. Living in an extremely modern rental which insists on a millennial grey colour pallet, sharp corners, and life be neatly packed away and hidden behind built in cabinets causes my wild, earth-witch heart to sink. In desperate attempt to bring the outdoors in, I’ve furnished every corner with as many plants as humanly possible, and am slowly building up a look that brings comfort, warmth and life back into a very sleek and uniformed flat. My current mission: to create a gallery wall of antique style and mismatched demeanour; frames of varying sizes, rustic earthy colours and some rough edges, unusual mounts, tiny prints, renaissance-reminiscent artworks and large nostalgic photographic moments. I’ve recently purchased an old wooden brick mould which I plan to hang vertically and finally have some kind of storage for the knickknacks which I have currently cluttering the only provided surface my home has to offer - a kitchen sideboard.

My hope is that breathing some life into my surroundings will fuel some fire within me to write. If I am surrounded by inspiration, then every inhale and scout around the room will absorb some creative dust. It’s like with modern architecture, its lacklustre exterior pales in comparison to the more grandiose building of old. If you want to soak up culture, any sort of municipal building from the 60’s onwards is not exactly one’s go-to. Give me impossible stonework and spires, Georgian windows framed by dramatic drapery tumbling from impossibly high ceiling to floor, gothic frescos, imposing gargoyles, heavenly stain-glass, give me tiled porches and ornate letterboxes, walls with bricks placed, seemingly haphazardly but with intention, by calloused hands and determined hearts.

Tentatively rejecting my new-found hermit status, I took myself on a date. This, I found to be another tactic to tempt the muse. It may seem cliche, but taking oneself out for dinner is an excellent aphrodisiac for the creative self. I drank wine, ate red meat and poetry sprang forth from me. I feverishly scribbled down by candlelight a short story idea whilst stuffing face with roast potatoes and grinning gratefully to my waitress who had thoughtfully moved a recently arrived family with screaming child in tow (demanding immediately a bowl of chips for said child) away from my romantic bubble and to another (better) table, far, far away.

What these acts of tangible activities has taught me is that in a world of social media overconsumption, I’ve become sickened by some kind of cheap muse. Too much to comprehend, being enticed like some kind of siren call at every turn until eventually drowning in empty ideas. I’ve been stunted by the sheer volume of it all, and the repetition of content ideas, hooks, (not so niche) niches. Scrolling through versions of my would-be self, reflected back to me by far more successful people and knowing I would just be another drop in an incredibly vast, widely accessible ocean, leaves a mental exhaustion. Ultimately, what more could I bring to the table? There is an aspirational element of course, but the instant, huge quantity of it is, frankly, debilitating.

Slow-inspiration, tangible-inspiration which oozes of precious time spent in curating, building, that’s the kind of muse I seek. She’s there, she pops up in the quiet moments, the moments I finally switch off from the internal and cyber noise, and accept my own pace in the race, one which hopefully is building a creative quality and identity that embodies the muse in a meaningful and lasting way, a way that is all my own.

I never thought that inspiration could be the death of creativity, it’s an easy way to lose sight of your own path. And so, I’m building my fortress, blocking out the influence and praying I find the muse within. Or else, it’ll just be another half-finished project I’ve abandoned for some random domestic task I’ve distracted myself with…

I guess I’ve always thought of myself as a witch, or that there is something witchy about all women. Not the evil, demonizing connotation but with that mother nature intuition women seem to fundamentally hum with. If woman reflects all seasons, Autumn is her vibrating with power. There’s something about this time of year that intuitively feels inexplicably female and powerful. The word itself is utterly delightful. Latin, which if languages were a season also, Latin would be autumn right?! An autumnal sunshine is like no other, a warming deep relief upon up-turned faces (instinctively seeking her orange rays) from the cold snap that threatens the air, as she gently melts away the early morning chill. Autumn is Friday, it’s a vibrant burst of colour oozing through monotonous grey, it’s the cold side of a pillow, it’s a homecoming. At least, it is for me...

Being an autumn Scorpio-baby, it perhaps makes sense why I come alive this time of year. Breathing in the crisp morning dew and exhaling visible puffs of air swirling up through a blue autumnal sky, smudged with pastel candy floss clouds and illuminated by a sunrise you’ll actually be up in time to wipe away sleep and watch - I am an exhilarated fire sprite stalking her realm for these three months of the year. I feel my most self, my most confident and defiant.

Autumn food - my god the food - is unquestionably the pinnacle of foodie cuisine. I’ve gone a tad crazy this year and stuffed pumpkin and squash into every dish I reasonably can: pumpkin chilli, pumpkin-spiced granola, butternut squash and sage risotto, the list goes on and each one has been a heavenly warm and comforting delight. I’ve even tried my hand at a pumpkin pie - unfortunately the visuals were fall-terrific, the taste: horrific.

Halloween was birthed smack in the middle of autumn and also happens to be my birthday eve. Perhaps this is why this seasons feels as though it belongs to me, why I feel such glee glancing at the glisten of spider webs in between railings, and the urge to pluck rouge rosehips that look like puckered lips, ripe for kissing, from my neighbor’s front gardens, and harbour a need to hear my footsteps rustle among fallen leaves deep within a scarlet, amber, saffron wood. To lie amongst the pumpkin patch as spirits tread lightly and peacefully for a time, while the veil between realms wanes just enough to feel the ghost of history return with its tales. My birthday will never not be predicated by the annual pumpkin picking and carving day with my family, and I bagged myself some in gorgeous gourdy colours, an unusual peach, burnt orange and spooky white - because nature just knows how to spice up our lives, and my home decor!

The gift this season brings best of all is the universally accepted post-summer pass time of a 'cosy-on down with a good book’. Fire roaring, sipping away at hot chocolate in the early eve, nose concealed deep within storied pages - and not a soul to disparage this autumnal anti-social event.

Some autumnal gems I’ve read this season have been: Rewitched by Lucy Jane Wood, an original witchy tale about a relatable ‘teenage-30 year old’ who must prove her magical majesty or else lose her powers for good (check out my full review for my book of the month Instagram post).

Brightly I Burn by Molly Aitken, is another witchy recommendation but with a more historical realism angle, considering the life of the first woman in Ireland accused of witchcraft, this book questions what this real-life figure would have not only endured, but what her convention-breaking life would have been. It breathes a voice into all women condemned for their individuality, survival, self-determination - their power. Lyrical, yet well researched, this is an excellent historical fiction read.

However, if you’re looking for something a little more fantastical, halloweeny and action packed, then I would suggest House Of Hollow by Krystal Sutherland. Don’t let the YA rating fool you, this book genuinely gave me the goosebumps and had me scrunching my face in disgust at the ghoulish gore and fear. You’ll love the three Hollow sisters, each one ethereal and other-worldly-cool in their own way. The story itself is unique and written so beautifully you’ll be enthralled by it’s haunting grace.

I’m not a huge detective novel fan, that being said I have read a few excellent murder mysteries that have kept me guessing from start to end and would recommend you give a go: Kala by Colin Walsh, How To Solve Your Own Murder by Kristen Perrin, The God Of The Woods by Liz Moore, and The Little Sparrow Murders by Seishi Yokomizo.

If there’s one fantasy you must read this season (and one that is woefully underhyped) it is the The Shephard King duology by Rachel Gillig. Set in a magical medieval land, a young girl living with a demon inside her must navigate a dangerous land, threatened by an infected mist that is slowly creeping from the bordering dark forest, and lorded over by a King and a group of elite families who monopolize over a limited set of mysterious magical deck of cards. Seeped with original lore, eclectic characters, slow burn love affair, unexpected twists, and some seriously creepy and atmospheric scenes - it’s unputdownable!

I called this piece A Song For Autumn inspired by a book (shocker) I once loved called A Song For Summer by Eva Ibbotson, a wonderful book which at the heart of the Austrian-set period piece story is the author’s ode to the hazy summer months. And so this is my autumnal answer to that gloriously bright tale. An ode to the most primal of times. Summer is bright and brilliant. Autumn is vibrant and the last ablaze burst of life. 

I know, for some, it is tempting to deck the halls and whisper the frosty words of Christmas as soon as midnight strikes November 1st but I implore you, let’s not dash away autumn so immediately. She still thrives for another month, let us relish in her remanence of warmth, of gentle daylight, her determined battle against hibernation; winter stays for such a long time, can we bask in the autumnal spell a while longer before the darkness truly sets in.

I’m a young girl, maybe six or nine (typically with memories, it’s hard to know my exact age) and upon the dinner table sits a little red ramekin filled to the brim with small, plumpy shiny green olives, ripe for the picking as a pre-dinner amuse-bouche. I lick my lips and wishfully conclude this time will be different. My mouth salivating in anticipation as I pop one olive swiftly in. A devastating wash of sea tasting brine coats my tongue and despite the satisfying crisp crunch, I cannot stomach the taste and spit out the slimy culprit. But I’m not deterred; next time little olive, I will enjoy you.

Food means so much to me that I have been known to literally force feed myself foods I detest the taste of but so desperately wanted to like. Olives being one (coffee and tomatoes are among others) that I set out to train my taste buds to enjoy, starting with the greenest olive drenched in garlicky oil and paired with a raw bulb, and finally making my way up to always ensuring that at least a dozen hard black olives are scattered on top my margarita pizza. I am and have always been so crazy about food that it drives me to do crazy things just for the sake of eating.

And lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the importance if living to eat. Like a lot of Elder Millennial women, I’ve suffered with digestive pains and ‘stomach issues’, so lovingly named after barely a cursory investigation (and lack of interest in finding any other better answer) as IBS. Delightful. You can imagine my despair when the recommendation was to cut out high FODMAP foods, which after a quick google in the GP office my doctor informed me that first and foremost the two ingredients off the table were onions and garlic (which, in my opinion, are consequently the two key foods that turn just a few ingredients into a divine meal). It won’t surprise you to learn that I walked straight out with the blind stubbornness that I most certainly would not be following that diet. How could I possibly comprehend a dinner without the smell of garlic sizzling gently in olive oil, wafting through the house and threatening to sink into any fabric of clothing you happen to have left lying about. I can’t think of onions fried in salty butter without giving every boxer dog a run for their money with my salivating. I won’t even begin to explain my balk when next on the no go list was wheats and gluten - i.e bread.

How could I possibly breakdown my relationship with food when food has formed so many of my relationships? After all family, friends, lovers - we all congregate in the very room where food is prepared, in the most ritualistic manner. Ours lives are formed in the kitchen; lessons in preparing a meal for loved ones; singing ‘making bacon pancakes’ with your brother whilst mixing the cakey batter; red wine kisses as the risotto gently simmers; rushing to keep the dog at bay and the hoover frantically running over mum’s cherished and now smashed dinner plate; querying again and again the measurements of the annual Christmas eggnog with dad (and sneaking in a taste to be sure); mixing different milkshake flavours into cold milk early in the morning, before parents are even awake, with your sister and Bugs Bunny playing quietly in the next room; the best people at the best parties making the best memories; sitting by the window at the end with a warm coffee and last night’s fish curry lingering in the air. In the Kitchen understands the kitchen is where life thrives, unequivocally. It is an ode to these social moments belonging to the most sacred place where food is lovingly made.

With a similar take but from a slightly larger locale, National Dish examines the cultural identity which comes with food. This book is passionately and thoroughly researched, and tells us that it’s through the language of food that we come to understands not only ourselves but others. It’s personal, representative, ritual, identifiable and ultimately universal.

To step out of that, to move away from the foods which feel part of my history and identity may not seem like a big deal but felt emotional to me. I am lucky to have had my parent’s exotic and eclectic taste in both music and food that I’ve experienced from a young age dishes from all around the world. My mother, the huntress of the most obscure ingredients back in ‘90s when olive oil was an impossible commodity to buy at any one of the big superstores, and my father, a traveler of many continents gifting me the bug of seeking the unknown and colourful world outside my own. On top of their insistence to try everything once and an imparted habit of making the dinner table a non-negotiable social event, I would not be the foodie I am without their belief in food being the heart of the family and their exuberant devotion to flavour.

I would be remiss to speak of foods around the world without mentioning one of my all time favourite books: A Cook’s Tour by Anthony Bourdain. I’ve raved about this book many times, it is witty, edgy, brutally honest and has one of the clearest author voices I have ever read. It is wholly authentic in a way I struggle to find any modern writer or media personality achieve in recent years, which makes it a breath of fresh air to read. His diligence to food and passion for people seeps through the pages and punches you in the gut, you’ll want to read any book on food this guy writes (Typhoid Mary being another top tier book of his). My hubris chokes when I compare my love of food with his.

So with all that in mind, it’s hardly surprising my greedy little fingers ceased to make the most fanciful dishes to fuel not only my stomach but my joy. Food is a constant and therefore an integral part of the life I’ve lived. It is ever present in every anecdote shared, belief-system founded and relationship formed. This is something Jessie Ware and I share in knowing to be true. In her book Omelette she details key moments of her life where without food the experiences would not have been as rich, or may not have even occurred. Brilliantly funny and freakily relatable, you’ll either be howling or reminiscing alongside Jessie and her whirlwind recounts. And if that weren’t enough to convince you to read, perhaps this undoubtedly perfect first sentence will:

            ‘As soon as I came out of my mother, I was so greedy I made her nipples bleed’

A literary chef’s kiss to that!

If you prefer fiction, Omelette & Heartburn are two sides of the same coin. One being a food memoir (or foodoir as Jessie self-cringingly conceives in the introduction) and the other a fictional retelling of the author’s own life, or more specifically the breakdown of her marriage. Nora Ephron is far from an unknown talent and her pairing of food and love have been integral to her storytelling which has delighted consumers for many years. Heartburn bridges that non-fiction to fiction gap, while being told as a story with descriptive scenes, clear characters and lots of humour and heartache, it feels incredibly raw and true like a memoir. Plus, like Omelette, it is interspersed with recipes (which I have tried and tested and can confirm are delicious).

Tragically, after the umpteenth time of tucking into my recent summer lunch obsession (grilled prosciutto, sliced peach and mozzarella on sourdough toast, topped with honey and fresh basil - try it, it’s a summery burst of flavour delight!) and complaining of constant pains which tugged cruelly in the night, I figured it was time to at least give an elimination diet a go.

It’s taken ten years since the IBS ‘diagnosis’ to take my gut health seriously, I finally conceded to attempt, what I had assumed was, an incredibly restrictive diet. For fellow foodie sufferers out there who are curious about this kind of diet, I can tell you that while it does eliminate some delicious staples (farewell, morning flat white with whole milk), it’s thankfully not as strict as it first seems. My top tip, buy a Low FODMAP recipe book. This helped immensely with meal ideas and scrummy alternatives to throw in some much loved dishes. For example: garlic infused olive oil and the green bits of a spring onion work surprisingly well as alternative in a traditional Bolognese; the same swirling smell of delicious comfort doesn’t have to disappear. Plus, it’s a temporary status. The elimination designed to reset the gut and allow for slow re-introduction which can help you identify specific triggers - if you have the patience to not immediately stuff your face with all your trusty ol’ favourites (it’s a worrying possibility that I may end up doing this).

And if you are still feeling forlorn by the absence of your favourite foods, may I suggest reading a fiction which fill that gaping hole? Piglet by Lottie Hazell and Butter by Asako Yuzuki, are not only satiable with the food element, but are also just as filling with their story. Both touch on the topic of a women’s expectations and place in society and the perpetuated stereotypes that create a complexity with female relationship with food. You’ll be too busy gobbling up the characters plights and consuming the entire book to realise you were aching for an almond croissant all this time (yep, unfortunately pastry and almond butter is off the menu too).

The major downside to being picky with your food options is: you are now that friend who comes to parties with an annoyingly long list of dietary requirements. My advice, soften the blow by making the most delicious, diet-friendly dessert and the guests will be begging to join in on this bizarre dietary journey (well maybe not, but they definitely all raved over my gluten-free Dark Chocolate Torte with Lime and Chilli Syrup into the night).

TORTE RECIPE: 
Melt 300g dark chocolate & 150g unsalted butter together 
Separate 6 eggs and whisk the yolks with 125g caster sugar in one bowl until pale * *  Whisk the whites in another bowl until soft peaks form 
Stir egg yolk mix into the melted chocolate 
With a metal spoon fold in one tablespoon of whisked whites into the chocolate mix to loosen 
Then fold in remaining whites into chocolate mixture 
Place in a lined 8inch tin and bake at 200c for 20 mins. 
Once cooked, leave in fridge min 4 hours or overnight 
To make the syrup put 1 sliced chilli (add a few seeds for extra spice), zest and juice of 1 lime, 100g caster sugar and 150ml water into a pan 
Bring pan to boil then turn down to simmer for 10 mins 
Leave to cool and pour over torte to serve
Enjoy!

My point is, even with restrictions it’s still incredibly important to me to eat decadently and fully. I can never give up my status as a foodie. If I were an Olympian Goddess I would be the ruler of breakfast, lunch and dinner. And decadence doesn’t even have to be the ingredients used, it could be the presentation, the type of plate you use (I’m a sucker for using a wooden chopping board to serve), eating alfresco, eating beside a roaring fire, it can be a sprig of basil, rosemary, dill - the most underused herb the better (I’m looking at your sage) or even a wildflower; it can be slurping slop loudly or laughing until you cry over the soggy state of a gluten-free crumpet (I nearly made my boyfriend choke from laughing so hard, the stories, no matter what the food, continue to be created). Whatever makes eating feel more fanciful is worth the joy it brings. No other book of mine captures this state of mind better than A Gentleman in Moscow. It may not seem like an obvious foodie choice, but I assure you it is. If anyone understands the importance of hedonistic food it is Count Alexander Rostov, even in the most dire of times the imperativeness of delicious food withstands.

And this isn’t to say it has to be fine dining, it can be any meal that brings comfort and a feeling of self-worth. Nourishment is more than just the calories or nutrients, it is taking care of the soul.

I’m not sure if this diet has helped my belly troubles but it’s certainly been an enlightening experience. I appreciate food more, now that there’s a limit to what I can choose, I’ve experimented more and made new delicacy discoveries, I have gratitude for my access to produce and I’ve learnt that the joy of food is not necessarily it’s abundance in options but in the way it is made, who it is made for, who it is consumed with and ultimately for keeping this body of mine moving.

It’s the pinnacle of a bookworms experience, when you come across a writer who is able to capture an ambience with such distinct clarity that you feel you have somehow slipped into another dimension. This is especially challenging when attempting to breath to life an atmosphere that is formed by its historical period in time; the power and skill to capture this, in such a way that you can the world building around you, is the reason we book lovers feverishly read so much. And Christine Mangan is just such a talent who is able to do this.

With three fiction books under her belt (the latest released 2023), you can definitely identify in each read her distinct style and that Mangan’s passion is in setting her stories within, and capturing the exact mood of, a post-WW2/mid 20th century world. The tangled, heady, dangerous mess that was a fractured world piecing itself back together, where lives did not stand still but continued to churn, despite the destruction and unsettled nature of each war torn nations’ future. Tiptoeing through the rubble of society, each book’s protagonists are caught not only by the spider’s web of each hectic shellshocked land but they each must overcome their own internal dilemma (which are seemingly tied to the plighted foreign lands they find themselves wrapped within, like Alice down the rabbit hole).

Tangerine is my favourite of the three: it centres around a young woman, Alice Shipley, whose dark long-buried secret follows her from her life in America, all the way to her new life, with her new (if a little shady) husband, John, in 1950’s Morocco. Lucy Mason was Alice’s best friend but a horrific event at their school breaks the two bosom buddies apart, so to find Lucy appearing out of the blue on her doorstep in Tangier, wanting to reconcile, it is not only a shock but the beginning of Alice’s troubles. The two women couldn’t be more different, yet Alice falls quickly back into Lucy’s enthrall as she helps her explore and fall in love with this foreign hot land she’s found so difficult to connect with before Lucy’s mysterious arrival. But all is not what it seems and when John goes missing Alice starts to question everything around her, including her own state of mind.

Whereas, Palace Of The Drowned haunts me still: set in a wintery and gothic-like 1960’s Venice, published novelist Frances Croy has taken up residency in an attempt to escape her previous year and somewhat failure of a book launch. But of course there is more motivating Frances’ self imposed exile than just a tough review… Isolated, her hermit life is rocked by the imposition of Gilly, a young woman who bursts into Frances’ lonely existence and forces her friendship upon Frances. However, there’s something untrustworthy about Gilly and Frances begins to question Gilly’s true motive. With an eerie abandoned palazzo, a mysterious unknown landlord, an obsessive new friend, terrifying floods and folk lore legends swirling in the mix, this book will leave you spooked and questioning your own reality just like Frances.

What I’ve loved about these first two books is that the stories have centred predominately women protagonists, and female relationships. I’ve found Mangan’s take on this psychological thriller genre (set in a very male dominated media era) with female leads, utterly refreshing and unique (no love interests, no cliched ‘girly’ chat, incredibly real and raw with flawed and robust characters)!

And finally, rounding up the three, The Continental Affair is the perfect third tale which treads through the most countries (from Granada to Paris, Belgrade to Istanbul) in the 1960’s and is a thrilling cat and mouse chase between Henri and Louise. Both running from seedy pasts of their own but inexplicably bound by their present and uncertain future. With train rides across the continent and secrets running as entrenched as the tracks crossing the lands, this book, much like the previous ones, doesn't hold back on its climatic end.

All three books have a criminality, murder mystery and psychological thriller aspect and I would guess at Mangan having been enthralled and inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Daphne Du Maurier - for me Christine Mangan can easily sit amongst these greats as a modern contemporary. Capturing the time period in a way that is authentic yet feels accessible and easy to read for a modern and younger audience. Plus, a storyline that’ll keep you guessing until the very end.

If I’ve convinced you to give Christine Mangan a read then be sure to sit back in a floppy sunhat and cat-eyed sunglasses, whilst sapphire blue waves crash against your cliff top hotel balcony, as the sunrise gently begins to bake your skin. Take a sip of sweet mint tea in delicate laced crockery and rip open a crisp yet buttery croissant with a selection of creamy and nutty cheese slices, and try not to peek behind your shoulder to the mysterious stranger, face covered by an unusually coloured broadsheet paper, as you pass through each thrilling page of any one of these sizzling period drama reads.

The past two months have been a disappointing wash out, in more ways than one. With the wettest, most depressing spring weather came an unfortunate imbalance of lacklustre reads verses unputdownable ones (the latter a sorry few to choose from). Increasingly, I am discovering that a long held theory remains truer than ever: never trust a high rated Good Reads book (with the exception of my own reviewed 5 star reads of course!).

It’s frustrating to not be able to trust in the masses, but history never let’s me down and indeed history eludes to the truth of that sentence. No more so when it comes to taste in books. I find the more popular a book, on a uncontested and uncontroversial scale, the more boring and predictable they become. Watering-down caters for all, I suppose, but leaves an unsatisfied taste in my mouth. I blame myself in some ways, a guilty consumerist; I am heavily and embarrassingly-easily influenced, in a way I never was as a young reader. Back in the ‘good ol’ days’ I always trusted my gut when book shopping and it never, if ever, steered me wrong. Perhaps I should re-introduce book shopping in the only way I knew how as a 90’s kid - in person bookshop visitations. It would help to decrease my ‘I want it now’ attitude which grew along with the ease of online shopping and thus leaving me drowning in the TBR debris cluttering up my flat. I suppose all alternative routes have a butterfly affect though, in all likelihood this nostalgic way of book buying will bring destruction to my bank account by way of additional coffees, travel fees and the pick me up little treats I will inevitable invest in along the way, as I skip along gleefully to the local bookstore (which also sells wine, sorry liver), but at least there’s a possibility of buying something I absolutely truly love - which is surely worth the extra price tag?

The positive - because I promise there is a silver lining - I read two incredible reads that I cannot shake from within. And one curve-ball that will guarantee good (not-so clean) fun. Read on to take a look at my two month book wrap up.

Best Reads

Butter

Calling all self-identified foodies and true crime podcast obsessives - Butter by Asako Yuzuki is a book made just for you!

While this wonderful tale seamlessly combines the mouth-watering world of fine-dining cuisine with the dark underbelly human transgressions, there’s more to this book than meets the eye. Based on a true story, we follow Rika, a modern-woman living in Tokyo Japan, as an ambitious young journalist caught up by the lonesome rat-race lifestyle, she manages to score one of the most enviable scoops: an interview with gourmet chef turned black-widow-style murderess Manako Kajii. The catch, Kajii insists on only discussing her one true love: food.

Kajii has never spoken of the crimes she was convicted of, despite the case's notoriety sweeping feverishly nationwide, but Rika hopes to discover the truth behind this infamous criminal through humouring Kajii on her obsession with exquisite cuisine done the 'correct' way . Along the way Rika discovers more than she bargained for about herself and gets caught up in Kajii's eccentric gastronomic world.

Really, this book offers an immense insight into Japanese culture, the expectations of women, the nature of the media and the justice system and the power balance between the sexes. The characters are a delight to get to know, full of quirks and relatability - you’ll not only read about the food with such intensity you could almost taste it, but you’ll feel as though you’ve read each character into existence.

As you chew through every delightfully immaculate detail of the dishes cooked and sampled by Rika, you’ll find a story of cultural misogyny, societal judgement of women (especially when it comes to their relationship with food, work, motherhood and sex), insight into the effects of salacious gossip and trial by media, and a tantalising whodunnit in an unjust system within an unjust world, unfold.

With plenty of tension (Rika’s first meeting with Kajii reminded me immediately of Silence of the Lambs), and delights (you’ll want to pause mid-chapter to attempt to make and sample every described meal) this book is as fun as it is intriguing - you're guaranteed to eat up every single word.

Warning: Do not read whilst hungry! 5⭐️s.

Salt Slow by Julia Armfield

Gothic and poetic, step into the surreal world of Julia Armfield and her collection of short stories: Salt Slow, which tackle subjects on girlhood, love, obsession, culture and motherhood (to name but a few), all told through metamorphosis experiences within an unhinged, and at times dystopian, metaphorical world.

A modern sci-fi twisted version of romantic-gothic literature, this book screams to me of honouring the worlds of Shelly, Radcliffe and Bronte. Perhaps given the genre's cultural significance for women at the height of its popularity (which in itself was transformative on page as it was for the women who read them), the choice to create an alternative world submerged in this eerie genre feels poignant for this feministic collection of stories.

Each short story is distinct in its plot and succinct in its telling. Little breadcrumbs of connection hidden within each tale are a thrill to discover and seamlessly sews together a clear over-arching theme throughout to book: an anthology of the female experience.

It’s beauty in prose is only improved by the short, sharp stories. Conjuring up Tim Burton style visuals, this is a collection of gruesome fairytales but for the adult women - empowering, monstrous, dark and lyrical. The individual plots are unique and unusual with incredibly powerful hidden meanings that will send your head spinning.

Left wanting more, you’ll quibble and concur with your reading pals over which tale was your favourite (for me I connected embarrassingly deeply with Stop Your Woman’s Ears With Wax, and Cassandra After – even the name of this story is to die for). You’ll quote the most gorgeous and haunting sentences like: ‘the opened ribs, hands reaching into the pulp of her, a rhythmic movement of fingers, tapping out a song against her heart.’. If you have a poet's heart you'll be forever unpicking the dreamy yet horrific choice of words, swimming around in your head until you can’t help but burst aloud, ‘How beautiful is this!’.

Salt Slow creates a bizarre yet almost identically recognisable world, an atmosphere that reminded me of Wivenhoe (book) or Black Mirror (tv series). Immersive and original, you’ll read in one sitting. 5⭐️s.

OK Reads

Restless Dolly Maunder by Kate Grenville

Restless Dolly Maunder by Kate Grenville is a quiet and perfectly formed tale about the life of an ambitious woman caged by the time she is born in. Set in the turn of the 20^th century, Dolly wants more from her life than settling for rough farm living and an existence only as mother and wife. Despite the uphill battle of the patriarchal world around her, she refuses to accept the fate of a working-class Edwardian woman that she is dealt.

This book highlights one of many unspoken voices in history, the story of an unremarkable life that nonetheless deserves to be told. If you’ve ever wondered on the day to day experience of an ordinary woman in the past, trying to get by and make something of herself – then this book will bring clarity to the unknown. What strikes most in this book is the relatability to the mundanity and disappointment of every day life, and the restless urge to strive for better, which we can all recognise in Dolly, especially as a woman entrapped by the society she belongs to.

If you love historical fiction you’ll love the simplicity and straight-talking account of Dolly’s life in the 1900’s and of the everyday living of Australians at that time. It’s originality comes in giving a voice to an unextraordinary but no less important person: the author’s own grandmother. Grenville attempts to understand her cold, distant grandmother better by exploring what hardships she must’ve experienced and it’s through the author’s own reflection that we really get to know the life of women with such a rural and restrictive lives.

This is a wonderful read for lovers of books by Kristin Hannah and Kate Mosse and will satisfy nicely those who seek to unearth the past through the eyes ordinary folk.

For me, the fact it is based on a real woman, and one who is a family member, bumps the score up higher. It’s a perfect recounting of an everyday working woman’s live at the turn of the century, however because it rings true to life it can come across a little unexciting and leave you feeling not much happens plot-wise. I don’t believe that the point of the book is to be heavily plot driven, it is bare and truthful about the not so unique existence of most people, and this can be hard to confront with. If you are a history enthusiast you will enjoy it for it’s insight into everyday life of a person of history, and if you like a slow unassuming tale you will enjoy the simplicity and unpretentiousness of this book. 3.5 ⭐️s.

The Girls by Emma Cline

There was a lot I liked about The Girls, I in fact scored it quite highly at Book Club, however sitting down to review I’ve come to find I remember very little about the book and have not given it much thought since reading.

Things I enjoyed: the understanding of teenage girls, how friendships are formed or painstakingly lost and the difficulties of fitting in. The coming of age element hit hard as well as the insight into what a mason-style cult would’ve been like, along with it’s gold painted turd messiah of a leader. The immersion in 60’s life was particularly pleasing to read!

Things that didn’t work for me: the ending was a little anti-climatic. The jump between past name and present felt unnecessary and distracted from the juicy meat of the story which of course was her time in the cult. The story being told by an outsider - her story wasn;t compelling enough to outweigh what ultimately you wanted to read about which was life as a cult girl, in the end the side characters fascinated the most and didn’t dive into them enough to satisfy as a reader. Perhaps that was the point given that name never truly fit in - but as a reader wanting a good story, it didn’t quite work for me and left me wanting more in the worst way.

Having said that, it is still worth a read! The writing in particular is incredibly beautiful, Cline breaks literary rules in such a fun way that make her descriptions just pop of the page: a personal favourite line of mine being ‘a glut of spaghetti, mossed with cheese’. Her unconventional use adjectives or nouns as verbs not only gives colour to the piece but also feeds into the playful deconstruction that this cult life is determined to emulate against society. For that alone, I would recommend this to anyone to read - 3.5 ⭐️s.

Disappointing Reads

Take What You Need by Idra Novey

Because I don’t Know What You Mean and What You Don’t by Josie Long

I’m sorry but I just didn’t get it?! I suppose it’s not fair having read two short story collections in one month but honestly I’m not sure I would’ve enjoyed this one even if I didn’t have Salt Slow to compare it to. Firstly the writing was bizarre - written very much in the head of each protagonist, I didn’t particularly enjoy Long’s style. It was hard to differentiate who was narrating at times, and difficult to like many of the protagonists. Mostly, I would end each story wondering what the point of it all was, either it felt so on the nose (with particular political eye-rolling) that there wasn’t much of a tale to be told, or it was all so obscure I felt like I was fighting with the author to understand what she was trying to convey. It was neither funny, emotional, clever nor so weird it could be counted as wacky and irreverent. Just not for me and when I compare it to Salt Slow which I think attempts similar commentaries and alternative reality settings, I’m afraid you can see the immaturity in this book when it comes to writing technique and style - 1.5⭐️s.

A Room With A View by EM Forsters

I want to enjoy classics, I want to understand the revolutionary, cautionary, humorous commentary of classics. I am constantly ashamed that I just don’t think classics and I get along. As a history lover this hurts more than I can say. Nonetheless I will continue to power through popular classical books - unfortunately A Room With A View joins the growing pile of dusty old, challenging to read and consistently un-enjoyable classic books I’ve read.

There seems to be a cross over period of history where it’s close enough to the present that references still make sense, and the differences can seem whimsical, comical and even nostalgic, and then there are books so far in the past that it’s almost like discovering an ancient civilisation, there is a thrill in getting to understand the world building and language much like a fantasy novel, and reimagining the past with it’s follies and unusual practices, you can forgive easily the further back the tale was written for the ignorances at the time of humans less capable than us modern counterparts - you accept them for what they are and the society that existed and could be no better.

Then there is this odd middle ground, were it’s close enough that references and practices feel outdated even for the time it was written in, the language is clunky - almost modern but not quite (which is hard to excuse as poetic or romantic) and it’s impossible to amuse at the naivety, yet it is far back enough to be tricky to read syntax and understand cultural pin points - in a word these books are frustrating. This book unfortunately sits in that ground. The constructs and rules the characters are bound by seem farcical and are the basis for a lot of the book’s narrative and plot, which makes it immensely hard to get on board with any of the characters and what drives them. For me it doesn’t age well - you can neither enjoy nor feel like you are immersed in historical verse. It’s just plain unenjoyable - I am convinced there are other classics which are much more worth the time. I don’t take any joy in the scoring (much like I didn’t in the reading): 1⭐️s.

Take What You Need by

Oh I so wanted to like this one! I was drawn by the interesting nature of the book - an estranged but beloved relationship between a step-mother Jean and her step-daughter Leah, set in the Appalachian lands - but the execution left me bitterly depressed and not in a good way. The two protagonists were unfortunately unlikeable, their actions hard to relate to and the author’s own voice came through too strongly. I couldn’t help but pick at the strong stereotyping bias against working class, Mid-Western Americans in such a way that felt cliche and written based on opinion rather than fact. And that’s not to say you can’t be critical of a part of your country, or history or societal attitudes but I think the haughtiness of Leah in particular is off putting and the book in general offers no nuances, explanation or redeemable character arcs. In the end, bitterness and conceited virtue seemed to be the main point of the book. The metal welding aspect had the potential to be cool but verged too far into the technicality that it alienates the reader. I learnt nothing and felt nothing other than utter disappointment and boredom. Would not recommend.

Curveball Fun Reads

Done And Dusted by Lyla Sage

A sexy, chic-lit, cowboy romp. Fun, cliche and totally ye-haw. If you’re looking for a easy romance, light on the drama, heavy on the sex-appeal then y’all are gonna love this book - ok I’ll stop. But seriously, I was in a book slump, in need of a fresh pick me up and this book did just the job (think romantasy but without the war and intense new world to get on board with). Sometimes reading is about just living in a thrill bubble without the fancy words nor underlining meaning trying to convey some kind of lesson. Also, it honestly brought me a juvenile amount of joy to make up the southern drawl American accents in my head while I read.

Sometimes you just want to ride off into the sunset with a hunky cowboy and that’s just a-okay! 5⭐️s purely for the stupid escapist delight…and the sexy cowboy - did I mention he is hella sexy?!

Wonderwahl Book of the Month: May & June Selection

Butter & Salt Slow - I mean what more can I say! These books were my Wonderwahl spotlighted books of the month and with good reason. They both have a healthy mix of intriguing plots and characters, breathtaking writing, and interesting commentary. You will not be disappointed.

For daily bookish content follow me on Intagram @_wonderwahl_

I read a lot of books - not sure if that’s been clear! - so I figured I could use this almost useless but incredibly joyful skill by starting a monthly book wrap up series. Each month I’ll be sharing my reflection on the previous month’s reads, rating the best and the worst of them, my thoughts and whether I would recommend.

My reviews for this series will on the whole be spoiler free - so you get the most insightful review with minimal spoils. No potential twists ruined, guaranteed!

Out of all my reads I’ll also choose a Book of The Month pick - the worthy book I think you should add to your TBR for next month.

So without further ado, here is March’s wrap up. Happy Reading!

Best Reads

Rouge by Mona Awad

From the author of the critically acclaimed Bunny, comes another surreal tale: Rouge. Fall into a sinister Wonderland with Mona Awad’s new book, (fit to boot with wacky residents, each with a hidden agenda or cryptic lesson) where she successfully argues the need for a modern-day Grimm-style tale for adults.

Our heroine, Mirabelle, is beauty obsessed. Struggling with her relationship to her mother’s own beauty, Mirabelle is captured by the wellness industry and is on a constant journey to retain her youthful ‘beautiful’ looks. The sudden death of her mother leads Mirabelle down the dark path her mother trod before her, falling into the same mysterious, vampiric spa-cult her mother attended before her untimely death. Find out just how far Mirabelle will go to attain the ‘Glow’!

Through a fairytale-style lens this book manages to address a number of critical themes: the sinister world of the beauty industry (its erasure of culture and push to attain a one-size-fits-all beauty standard), the contentious complexity of a mother-daughter relationship (as further damaged by the Disneyfied ‘evil stepmother’ narrative), and the warped importance and worthiness beauty gives to women within society (as taught from a young age).

You will be transported into a nightmarish, Dorian Grey-esq-tale set in sunny LA, with its creepy, sultry, gothic yet elegant underbelly-world of the rich and beautiful. In this world, what extremes can the desperately envious and secretly broken be pushed into to reach the ultimate wellness goal?

In the age of Instagram and over-consumerism, Rouge is a perfect allegory for the beauty-obsessed society we’re not only living through now but have always been sucked into. What struck me the most about this book was Awad’s clever writing style – in particular I enjoyed how she peppered the book with Freudian slips, used as a devise to hold a mirror up (so to speak) to the insidious damage caused by the pressures of attaining 'the beauty standard’.

If you are a fan of fresh, original takes on fairytales, or clever use of writing which brings the reader in on the symbolism and humour, or you enjoy crazed metamorphosis and descending into moral chaos, or even a reframing of mythological stories in the modern era, then this is most definitely the book for you. 5⭐️s.

Educated by Tara Westover

A Beautiful book. It reads like a fiction but is a true memoir written by a woman who grew up in a fundamentalist, end of days, outside of the skirts of society family. It follows her recanting her childhood up to and beyond her life of escaping the unorthodox life her family lived, and the heartbreaking consequences that came with it.
Tara is a natural storyteller, this book is gentle and brutally honest, and is a self-realising and forgiving account of looking back at one’s life. It has heartache but a lot of hope.
Mostly you can just feel the deep deep love a person can have for their family despite their tumultuous, unusual, and sometimes dangerous, sometimes abusive upbringing. There’s a lot of light that shines through, and a surprising amount of sensitivity for such a harsh tale.
What struck me most was the theme on family, this book addresses the ties family can have on us which are so strongly bonded, but what happens when that family is one you feel you can no longer relate to and who inevitably hurts you the most.

It reminded me a lot of Betty but less lyrical and less harsh (which Betty paradoxically is throughout). It made me weep but feel comforted by the authors relatability despite living a life so different to so many. Must read if you haven’t yet! 5⭐️s.

Bright Young Women by Jessica Knoll

Story focusses on the people (in particular the women) affected during one of the most notorious serial murder sprees in the 70’s. A distinctive narrative choice that jumps out immediately is the author’s poignant decision to not refer to the murderer by name, an insistence I will continue to follow in this review. During a time when serial murder rates were not just high, but exploited and sensationalised the media, it’s refreshing to read a book from a point of view so tragically rarely heard: the victim’s.

The story is told from two perspectives and differing timeframes. One perspective from Pamela (the best friend of Denise who was brutally murdered in their shared sorority house) and her fight to prove she could identify the man who committed those crimes and bring justice for her friend. The other perspective from Ruth, and the life she lead up until the tragic moment she was murdered by the same man a few years earlier. I liked the way the author intertwined their two stories despite their being years apart, and the unravelling of their fates intrinsically connected. It was also fully (infuriatingly so) immersive of the female experience during the 70s, written so eloquently and honestly (with all the grey areas social issues tend to include) but not preachy - just a part of the story and trials the characters had to overcome.

My only reservation, and why I have bumped down a star, is that it’s a bit of a tricky read. Unfortunately there was a lot of American-college jargon (with distinct cultural references) that just went over my head as a British reader and some of the writing is convoluted to the point of too much information in one sentence. I found the complexity of the style of writing lead to confusing grammar and had me re-reading sentences or paragraphs more than once. Particularly in the first half of the book, it seemed as though it was trying to be too clever which unfortunately took me out of the story and smothered the plot at times. Things relaxed and picked up for me in the second half though, where it began to flow a lot easier. I would definitely recommend overall, it’s an excellent retelling of a true crime that captured American society but told from the only voice that should’ve been listened to. 4⭐️s. I also have to make a special mention to the cover - what an eye popping book cover, 70’s retro gorgeousness, but also a nod to American-horror films, definite Hitchock’s Psycho vibe. They just got the brief spot on.

OK Reads

Satsuma Complex by Bob Mortimer

There’s only one word that springs to mind to best describe this book: irreverent.
It took me a long time to understand what this word meant and if I’m honest even now I’m never really 100% sure how to describe the word BUT I know it when I see it and this book definitely is irreverent.

You’ll dip into an almost cartoonish version of reality, bursting with caricature characters: an oddball protagonist, Gary, and a supporting cast whose personalities and idiosyncrasies verge on the extreme. Follow them on an almost farcical but incredibly serious crime adventure - it’s the quirkiest crime book you’ll read that really centers on people and relationships and finding your family.

You’ll hear Mortimer’s voice with such clarity that it did take me a little time to get used to and disassociate him from the story - for me it really picks up by Part 2. Once you get used to the protagonists unconventional way of conversing with the world around him, the book starts to take on a more heartwarming element.

The overall murder-mystery/crime plot is engaging enough, I liked the visuals and the distinctive descriptions of people and places as told through the view of Gary - there’s something almost child-novel in the way characters we encounter are described, with strong, sharp visual identities. Which in the end I quite liked and suited the extreme personalities.
The comedy (unsurprisingly) was of a British-quirky nature, think Mighty Boosh, IT Crowd, Shooting Stars bizarreness; a weird cartoony parallel world in which nutty stuff just makes sense - which, let’s fact it, is totally in keeping with the author.
In the end, I kind of loved it. Simple, weird and sweet. You’ll find it easy to read, fun and endearing. I’d give it a 3.5⭐️s, it didn’t totally blow my mind but was definitely enjoyable and I’m glad I read it - perfect respite book that’s has originality.

Briefly a Delicious Life by Nell Stevens

I’ll be honest, this book is completely unlike what I was expected/hoped it would be. I thought it would be whimsical, full of artistry and focusing on the fun, daring and possibly dangerous yet thrilling world of the Romantic Era movement at the time.

Unfortunately, this book wasn’t nearly as daring, sexy or romantic as I hoped.

The non-heteronormative relationships and lifestyle didn’t feel robustly explored and were sprinkled in here or there, not what the blurb alludes at all. Even the main focus of the story - a ghost, Blanca, falling deeply in love with a living writer - was skimmed over. What or why she fell in love with George Sands is merely stated with a single sentence with little fanfare.

Some interesting plot points were raised but in the end ran nowhere - it felt like a lot of missed avenues. Either the book tried to put in too much and should’ve focused on one narrative, or it should’ve been a much longer book, in order to fully explore those areas more. For example, George’s life as a writer, leaving her children behind to pursue a career, her relationships with women and dressing in society as a man, should’ve been incredibly interesting to read but it was all a bit surface level in the end. Or, why was Blanca the only ghost around, her pondering on her existence is touched on a few times but, again, is left open and unexplored. These are unfortunately just two of many plot points that could’ve been picked up and run away with but are unfortunately stunted and leaves you bereft of a decent tale.

I did wonder whether the author tried to stay too close to historical fact (despite the unusual narration of a teenage ghost) and I feel the author should’ve taken more artistic license instead of relaying too much of the truth of the past, because in the end it made for a slightly glum and almost boring read.

Some plus points are: the idea is compelling and it does almost find legs, and the prose and descriptions were beautifully written at times, but could not hold up to a plot that was lacking.

While I enjoyed the originality of the concept, it risked being a little childish at times. The setting was beautifully described and felt you were in the era, Paris and the provincial-ness of the Mallorca village in the 15th century were especially clear to picture.

I liked it but if was asked whether I would recommend reading, I would probably say to give this one a miss. You won’t gain much by reading it, but if you like slow gentle reads that aren’t too deep then it could be up your street. 3.5⭐️s.

Wonderwahl Book of the Month: April Selection

It was a tough decision to make between Rouge and Educated, both reads were stand out in very different ways, but Rouge by Mona Awad is my April Book of the Month pick. Out of all the reads it was the most exciting, interesting and original. I think you’ll love it!

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Is there anything more precious, a jewel rarer, than a second-hand book?

I’ll tell you why they are so much more than musky smelling, yellow paged, brittle stained elderly pieces of paper. They are, in fact, a talisman to the our past.

As a history amateur-aficionado, second-hand, vintage, antique are all well versed vocabulary I use when scouring through my bookshelf (and wardrobe, and touring through my house-hold objects, ornaments, crockery…etc). I just treasure a second-hand find!

Now, let’s not over-romanticise a second-hand bookstore. Damp, kitsch in the uncool sense of the word, moldy dust clinging to the air and nostrils, and most often hidden behind haphazard piles of old books you’ll find a battleaxe of an owner who ducks further among the book-fort in a desperate effort to desist the disturbing of their slumber, second-hand bookshops aren’t always the cosiest of places to frequent. And if you’re thinking of entering with a book in mind, think again - it is nigh impossible to go in with an aim, as I found on my trip to the book-town in Wales: Hey-on-Wye. Could I find an early edition of my favourite book: I Captured the Castle, in any of the dozens of bookstores nestled in the higgledy cobbled streets? Goodness, no. You don’t tell a second-hand bookstore what you want, it tells you.

Oh, but of course this makes a discovery that much sweeter for the hunt. I now own many a book I never thought existed: Shakespeare and that Crush by Richard Dark, this early edition has not only the quirkiest cover but a handwritten inscription gifting the book from The Commissioners of Inland Revenue in 1930, ‘with love’. A sickeningly sweet pink edition of Ariel, complete with bright hot pink wilting tulips, was my introduction to Plath; beautiful inside and out. Specialised cook books - one on Wines of the Cape: part informational, part cookbook/wine pairing manual, and the other a book on cooking for love: Venus in the Kitchen. A first edition Alice In Wonderland - need I say more? These are to name but a few. Each of my second-hand books are a character of their own, whether it be from their annotation from previous owners or through their kooky book covers, illuminating the style of the time.

As you might be able to tell, I’ve become a little obsessive about second-hand books, not only for their historical connections but I’ve taken to exclusively buying earlier editions of modern classics, usually when suggested to read by my book club group. The reason being is the earlier covers are just usually the most beautiful - much like many aspects of the past, there is an attention to the detail and beauty of book covers designed in previous eras. This spiraling addiction lead to me accidentally ordering a 70’s edition of Lolita - in Italian. What can I say, the cover was too luscious to pass up: a caramel colored cover with a chocolate-brown border which frames in the center a sepia-tone picture of a 60’s looking starlet. And the back obviously adorned with Italian words which without any Italian speaking capabilities, are to me a piece of artwork of their own. This resulted in my listening to the story on audiobook, which, with Jermery Irons as the narrator, was ultimately the correct way to consume that book.

Second-hand books are a connector in humanity, they bring us closer to one another in a multi-layered way that goes beyond one human connecting with another through their writing, but they connect us on a non-physical plane as well as a physical one.

It’s the beauty of my coffee barista telling me of his hunt to find a book of poems by Frank O’Hara. Without any luck finding one to purchase new, this lead to finding a big ol’ dusty copy of his complete works in the university library (the library of course being the ultimate second-hand book hangout!), and being humbled by the checkout note which spanned back to the sixties where a young women, a student like himself, checked out the very same book once upon a time. Thumbing at the same pages, marveling at the same printed words, and smiling at the ghostly etched markings in it’s margins, of students of old, underlying their favourite poems, writing tiny notes - was an experience he warmly shared with me, over the blast of steamed milk prepped for my morning flat white. Connection upon connection - through the writer himself and the people who read his words.

It’s also the shimmering joy of a piece of past that is unknowingly gifted - the very act I had completed in the form of a Christmas present for my boyfriend. To set the scene, it’s important to know that despite only recently being taught how to play, by my lovingly patient boyfriend, I’ve always been fascinated with chess. As a student of Cold War history, chess has held a very clandestine, mystical power over me, there’s a strange sexy glamour it has; intellectuals, people of great power and exemplar play chess, it’s the ultimate metaphor for strategy and war, what a fitting game to be heralded against the backdrop of the most intense historical, global, political-stalemate. Therefore, it was decided, that along with a chess set, I would purchase my love a book on how to play chess (which felt like the fitting accompanying gift), one with cheat sheets and strategies on how to best opponents. And of course, I was after an edition not only written in the Cold-War era but by a Russian chess master - to really round off the ambience I was attempting to create with my thoughtful gift. To make my second-hand search even harder a specific edition with a blue and white tiled cover (almost Mediterranean in it’s design) was the only edition I sort fit to purchase.

After many months of googling, sending emails to vintage suppliers, being duped by sites and ordering incorrect editions, I finally found and bought the exact copy I was after - the desired cover, delicate with age but in a good enough condition that this only added character, and an early edition that made me feel implausibly closer to the author himself. What truly made this discovery great, however, was the gasp from my boyfriend after opening to the first page on Christmas morning, and seeing an inscription from the previous owner. This inscription marked it’s ownership in the exact town in New York state my he had grown up in during his teens - a mere two roads away from his previous home. What were the chances, this book, written and published decades ago, by a man from a all too different country, passed through many hands and, through my own obsessive avocation, reached through time and space to join one’s past life with a present moment. Our own stories (mine and my love’s), becoming unwittingly connected through a single vintage book.

This is all to say, second-hand books are more than just books, they are little pieces of identity that stitch together a connectivity that is transcendent of time and reality. Bridging us on an emotional, cosmic level, a thing only humanity can create and define. I hope my cultivated bookshelves are treasured with a knowing kinship by others, and bring what I can only describe as real magic, in the future.

It’s sweltering; the air is thick and heady. I glance up at the ceiling from my sprawled-out position on the unfairly soft and encompassing sofa. I watch the large metallic light shade gently sway in rhythm to the lone fan beside me, blowing forcibly, desperately, regurgitating warm air. It’s the hottest recorded day the earth has ever endured, and I mistakenly am reading a book which features, storms, floods and chilly fresh autumnal mornings. I’ve intuitively picked wrong; this book is not the right mood. Not matter how well written.

I believe it is the Scorpion trait in me, a creature of habit, that drives my obsession of reading a certain type of genre over and over until I have exhausted all avenues and until like a switch, I cannot possibly consume even an essence of that subject. Last year it was books set in Southeast Asia - Japan, Korea, Thailand - it didn’t matter which, I was obsessed with immersing a new world and culture, which I knew so little about. Authors from these countries, history, everyday life, legends. Anything that remotely touched this context I was here for. The year before was Greek Mythology. This year, so far, has been all about food. I cannot stop myself from buying, reading and gorging on books about food. Whether that be written by chefs, accounts of food which seeped in nostalgia, stories with recipe’s thrown into the mix, history of food, food that shapes culture and society. As I write this, my insatiable appetite has yet to wane. However, one cannot read one genre alone always, and so when I am not obsessing over the intricacies of how pasta came to be, I am searching for a book which matches my mood, or more accurately the mood of Mother Nature.

Thinking back, I began intuitively reading in an intrinsic link with the seasons, when I was a teenager. I remember fondly my always go to summer read, Pirates! by Celia Rees. It was the perfect read for summery afternoons in the garden, sun beating down coaxing out the freckles on my nose. A cold drink sweats, ice cubes bubble as they give way to the heat. Bikini clad, I may be sunning on a lounger in Essex but really, I’m aboard a pirate ship in the middle of the Caribbean, one of only two women aboard yet none relenting in my approach to adventure and adversary. The pitiful book binding, fraying and cracked, can attest to the annual read of this book each and every summer. If the country was blessed with a heatwave, then this book became perfect symmetry to the hazy surroundings, so sweltering you could believe you were there. If it be an English washout, then this book served as a talisman to be transported across time and land, living vicariously through the pioneering heroines of the pages. It’s gritty, daring, totally engulfing in prose, descriptions and plot. I can feel the dirt and sea salt upon my brow every single time.

In contrast, last summer I purchased A Gentleman in Moscow and for many months it sat on by ‘tbr’ pile waiting patiently to be read. My eyes would scan the pile for the next book to read, always eyeing longingly this book, it’s grey, distinguished cover, the title alluding to a slower paced, aristocratic vibe, communicating with my body which instinctively knew it wasn’t yet time. This book required, quiet closed days, stormy skies, gusty winds, a typical English revered blustery, tight-lipped day. Summer turned to Autumn and Autumn to Winter and still, I didn’t feel ready to peruse the pages of this book. That was until Spring this year, and I suddenly felt it was time, eagerly plucking it out of the ‘to read’ pile. Still a crisp in the air but a feeling of hope, trees showing delicate signs of finer days with their littering of tiny pink and white blooms. To my delight this book not only matched the season perfectly, but it also had woven in the importance food and meals have on one’s life and moments in history. This was a double winner. Inspired by the protagonist’s sophisticated palate, I back engineered one particular meal described, whipping up the smoothest, richest tasting dinner, Pork Stew with Apricots, lavishly mopped up with a herby flatbread.

This is a book for literary lovers, you can sense the deep appreciation the writer has for the classical writers and poets, the legends, and the beauty and importance art, gentile and tradition, fighting and evolving in the backdrop of cultural rebellion and revolution. Spring is the ideal time of year for this kind of book, one that is clandestine, intriguing, yet intellectual and poetic.

Now, we are blessed in this country to have distinguishable seasons, which draws a great appreciation of the next. So while I can’t truly claim to a favourite, there is something about Autumn which speaks to my soul. It is a time of great nostalgia, it is the season of my birth, it is the season of mystery and magic, Halloween. It is Mother Nature entering her most bright and electrifying phase, abundant in colours of cinnamon, turmeric and terracotta. It is a time to in equal measure decorate and eat pumpkins and gourds, don for the first time in months roll neck jumpers and boots, and to appreciate the warm sun upon the face which has been flushed by the crisp new air as you stroll through dewy fields. It’s a time of great relief after the scorching hazy days of summer, the time of harvest, and of all the seasons feels the most paganistic and primal. Autumn is abundant, therefore autumn is for books which feel every crevice of one’s soul. So, what sort of book could possible match this Autumnal majesty? For me it’s not the obvious ghoulish or witchy tale (although that wouldn’t be sniffed at), no it’s actually the best time for the unassuming yet punchy tales, a book about everything yet nothing in particular. Stories that find the epic-ness in every day, ordinary, human life. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I Capture the Castle, Forgotten Garden, Betty - to name but a few. These nestle in every nook and cranny of my heart and are imprinted there always.

I began with Summer and so in the interest of cyclical symmetry I must end with Winter. What better season could there be to save for The Classics. How better to read Elizabeth Bennett’s fiery judgement as she mistakenly scorns time and again the intensions of Mr Darcy, knowing that every time she has misjudged and her love which has quietly blossomed in defiance will surely prevail. Or the anguish of Jane Eyre battling seemingly constant barrage of troubles in love and life, the miserly harshness of Scrooge matched with the long endured yet contented, sweet Bob Cratchit, the foolishness of Emma and the joys of learning from mistakes, or the enduring heartache of Anne Elliot, so close to her man, whom she loves wholeheartedly, and yet so far away. The backdrop of all these books, rainy countryside’s, blustery seaside’s, stormy castles and marshy farms - a sense of Great British broodiness. What better way to feel the sternness of the season than through the stiff language of the past, the intimacy of hands almost brushing, eyes locking with meaning but not words, and drama that only a society of delicate sensibilities and strict rules on etiquette, could produce. It may be cliché but for good reason. Where I live is the end of the river Thames estuary and while in the summer where the river meets the sea it will glisten as blue as any seaside town, it is in the Winter when it is in its glory - tide out, storms brewing, mudflats glisten with dark green seaweed and half bury boats which tip sourly waiting for the tide to return. I could stand upon the sea cliff, leaning into the harsh winds, scarf flowing wildly behind, entangled with my hair and imagine I am wrapped in a shawl, with nothing but a laced nightdress underneath and my angst channelled through deep longing stares towards the horizon. It is unrequited love turned love unrealised, it is hidden skeletons and unearthed pains, it is hardened hearts melting. It is mardy, it is Bronte, it is Winter.

Today I turned 30. Socially, it’s a momentous occasion, there’s an internal and external shift which causes one to take stock. Usually it is the ghosts of ‘Should’ve done that by now!’, and ‘Where is my life heading?’, that plague the run up to this particular birthday. For me, unusually, I am contented. Harmonious with the universe, I’ve never felt so self-assured. Perhaps you may think it’s good timing, perhaps I have achieved all that I wanted (definitely not the case, many goals left untouched); in reality it’s the opposite, I am awash with new exciting dreams which I am determined to play out. Turning 30 isn’t the end of the line, no it is the continuation of my beginning.

Something that has always been a constant in my life, and will (I am sure) continue on, is my obsession with human documentation. I think at it’s heart, that is why I love reading. It’s why I love history, it’s why I love writing, it’s why I studied journalism, it’s why I have this blog. It’s a way for humanity to, on a personal level, shout out to the abyss of the future: ‘Hello, I am here, I was here, I will always be here.

I am determined to make my substantial mark in my small corner of the world. I have this yearning to write beautiful, witty, resonating words, and for them be heard. ‘Let them eat cake.’ a young woman once never did say, yet those very words have been ascribed to her forever more. They shaped not only who she was in our collective minds, but inflicted great influence within history, which in turn caused their own catalysts in time. The power of storytelling is so prominent among human history, it affects every fiber of our being - whether for good or bad - we are everything through our stories and almost non-existent without them. Poor Marie Antoinette’s story is as misunderstood as the stories of a single individual from the destitute underclass is most definitely unheard. This intern has become its own story. A constant kaleidoscope of an infinite interloping web of tales, which eventually make up some resemblance of humanity’s true history.

Through photos and drawings, architecture, fashion, movies or cave paintings, food, symbols, songs and books; whether it be lore, myths, propaganda, fables, religion, historical or personal accounts - the stories we tell have transcendent power and I am determined to use my newfound confidence to add my story to the chaos of human history, even if the smallest power it holds is the ability to say: I existed, I was here.

Full disclosure, this is coming off the back of reading some fairly disappointing recent recommendations, so I might be tarring unfairly with the same brush here, but it has nonetheless left me a little mistrusting of popular, well-received reads. Which has got me thinking: can you always trust a critically raved about book to actually be…well, decent?

I like to think that I choose books intuitively, sometimes enticed by the blurb, mostly suckered in by the cover, but never because it is a popular or well awarded read. Before sitting down to write this article I think I would’ve wholeheartedly (nay, proudly) felt the awards and public attention served the author more than it does in choosing a new book.

My opinion of late had been that books which ride the wave of a public obsession (or in other words are ‘Instagram approved’) seemed to read more like depositions, prone to tropes and at times (ironically) inauthentic. I realise this standpoint may come across dripping in scathing judgement of my fellow readers, but that is not my intention at all! I get it, popular books are popular precisely because they are one note. Mediocracy pleases the majority, because it sits in the realm of not displeasing any one group by being too fringe. It’s also what makes it derivative and blinds us to the fact that it is so. After all, if it’s popular, it must be good right?!

Of course, this isn’t the rule. The masses do have an eye for upholding greatness, and I have often cut my snooty, stubborn nose off despite my know-it-all face, almost missing out on perfect reads just because they were ‘mainstream’. Had I not been heavily persuaded by a friend I would have missed out on Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. A tale that is simple in form, but packs a punch with its eloquent, sophisticated writing and doesn’t shy away from topical content, nor social commentary, in a way that also doesn’t belittle the reader but instead takes you along for the ride. A true readers book, a real testament to showing and not telling. This book not only won the audience vote but is dazzling with critical accolades (and well deserved too): Waterstones Fiction Book of the Month for February 2018 / Winner of the 2017 Costa Book Awards First Novel Award / Longlisted for the Women's Prize for Fiction 2018 / Shortlisted for the Desmond Elliott Prize 2018 / Sunday Times Bestseller / Winner of the British Book Awards Book of the Year 2018.

Who knows how many numerous treasures I’ve haughtily steered away from just because the book donned an infuriatingly large and cover-distorting ‘Best Seller’ sticker.

Then, (sigh) we come to Olive Kitteridge. I’m so sorry to those who heart-wrenchingly loved this book, (and I wanted desperately to love it too!) but I bring up this one next to compare. I think in regard to story type, it tries to evoke a similar quaint yet punchy tale of humanity, as Eleanor Oliphant […] does, however (for me) it does not pull it off the same. I found it didn’t strike the right balance with heavy topics and much needed levity, which took me out of the book and left me a little unsympathetic towards the characters. And the writing itself felt simple but without the elegance I craved. Now I know this book has a lot of love, and if it struck a chord with you, then that’s brilliant, and my opinion on it should in no way diminish that connection. Taste is taste. However, looking at it from the point of view of prize receiving, there’s no contest, I don’t think it’s worthy of Pulitzer when compared. And I wonder had it not won such a prize, would it have been as well received?

Having said that, (if you can bear putting up with my contrarian flittering), after meticulously trawling through my bookcase and conducting research for this article, I’ve come to realise that perhaps I am not only regularly swayed by the popular vote, but it is clear the accolades do (sometimes) have a point. My recently finished read: The Goldfinch, is most definitely an epic worthy of high praise, and I kick myself for allowing it to dust and wane on my side table for so long.

So, let’s not be hasty in suggesting the Pulitzer Group is wholly wrongly opinionated - but I would say, they definitely have a ‘type’. Even the kingmakers themselves are swayed by the social climate and can be blinded by a tale just because it strikes the right popular movement at the time. It feels a little disingenuous to me, surely these institutions should be agnostic of the sway, setting the tone because the writing is excellent and not because it pleases the zeitgeist (which of late seems to be buzz word roulette wrapped up in lecturing prose). It’s either that or the predictable fall back on typically masculine tales and private school boy love letters to Steinbeck or Tolstoy. I’m not absolved from this, I’m a sucker for a Bookstagram approved book, feminist tales and commentary on social agendas - as long as it doesn’t distract from the story or belittle the reader - I found Assembly somewhat struck the right note here, Pachinko perhaps even better. And I loved A Gentleman in Moscow, which (unsurprisingly) is a NY Times Bestseller, and is in my opinion, a classical tale for the modern reader.

Have I been blindsided by the accolades? Whether that’s in avoidance of good book or being hoodwinked into a bad one. And do we like any book because it’s good, or because someone told us it was good? How much of good reading is our own intuition and how much is it peer persuasion? And without it, would we have anything to read at all?

I may be over-thinking this.

Ultimately, there’s a sweet spot to a true deservedly revered book, and it lies somewhere between the realms of popularity and critical success; pausing before etching over the point of ‘dumbing down’ to suit the mainstream but steers away from the pit of indecipherable pretention; teeters upon the apex of originality vs relatability; a book that is written for all but feels preciously brought to life just for you to read. How hard can it be to write that? Right?

The moral of this article is: sometimes this heaven on earth of a book will garner warranted recognition, and sometimes you’ll get blindsided by the accolades and slam a book shut in rage at having been so unfairly duped, questioning everyone’s taste in everything.

Acclaimed books that did not live up to the hype.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout -

• Pulitzer Prize Winner

• TV show adaptation

• Widespread audience popularity

The Furrows by Namwali Serpell - (note: the first half was brilliant; the second half was like a dfferent book entirely and felt either forced on by the publisher or missed by an editor)

• NY Times Best Book 2022

• Barack Obama Best Books of 2022

• Guardian Best Fiction of 2022

How to Kill Your Family by Bella Mackie -

• Sunday Times Best Seller

• Widespread audience popularity

Olga Dies Dreaming by Xóchitl González -

• Widespread audience popularity

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Fiction

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Debut Novel

The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafa - (note: this one is 50/50 for me. An enjoyable read but I’ve read stronger books which have won similar awards - see The Paper Palace)

• Shortlisted for Women’s Prize for Fiction Award

• Costa Novel Award - Shortlisted

Books with both critical and audience successes, which I recommend.

The Paper Palace by Miranda Cowley Heller -

• Longlisted for Women’s Prize for Fiction Award

• Widespread audience popularity

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt -

• Pulitzer Prize winner

• Audie Award for Literary Fiction (2014),

• National Book Critics Circle Award Nominee for Fiction (2013),

• Australian Book Industry Award

• Nominee for International Book (2014),

• Women's Prize for Fiction Nominee (2014),

• Andrew Carnegie Medal for Fiction (2014),

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Fiction (2013).

• Film Adaptation

Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller -

• NY Time Best Seller

• Orange Prize for Fiction (2012),

• Gaylactic Spectrum Award for Best Novel (2013)

• Women's Prize for Fiction (2012)

• Chautauqua Prize Nominee (2013)

• Lovelybooks Leserpreis Nominee for Romane (2020)

Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles -

• NY Times Best Seller

• Kirkus Prize Nominee for Fiction (2016)

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Historical Fiction (2016)

• Book of the Month Book of the Year Award Nominee (2016)

• International Dublin Literary Award Nominee (2018)

Assembly by Natasha Brown -

• Shortlisted for the Orwell Prize for Political Fiction 2022

• Los Angeles Times Book Prize Nominee for First Fiction (2021)

• Desmond Elliott Prize Nominee for Longlist (2022)

• Goldsmiths Prize Nominee for Shortlist (2021)

• Rathbones Folio Prize Nominee for Shortlist (2022)

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee -

• Dayton Literary Peace Prize Nominee for Fiction (2018)

• National Book Award Finalist for Fiction (2017)

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Historical Fiction (2017)

• Reading Women Award for Fiction (2017)

• Litsy Award for Historical Fiction (2017)

• International Dublin Literary Award Nominee (2019)

• TV show adaptation

Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid -

• Goodreads Choice Award for Historical Fiction (2019)

• Book of the Month Book of the Year Award Winner (2019)

• Lovelybooks Leserpreis Nominee for Romane (2020).

• TV show adaptation

Acclaimed books added to my TBR.

Cursed Bunny by Bora Chung -

• Bookstagram noterirty

• International Booker Prize Nominee for Shortlist (2022)

Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason -

• Women's Prize for Fiction Nominee for Shortlist (2022),

• Nominee for Ann Medlicott Acorn Prize Fiction (longlist) (2021)

Shuggie Bane by Douglas Stuart -

• Booker Prize Winner(2020),

• British Book Award for Book of the Year (2021),

• Orwell Prize Nominee for Political Fiction for Longlist (2021),

• Los Angeles Times Book Prize Nominee for First Fiction (2020),

• Dayton Literary Peace Prize Nominee for Fiction (2021),

• National Book Award Finalist for Fiction (2020),

• Kirkus Prize Nominee for Fiction (2020),

• Saltire Society Literary Award Nominee for Scottish Fiction Book of the Year (2021)

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Historical Fiction and for Debut Novel (2020)

• PEN/Hemingway Award for Debut Novel Nominee for Shortlist (2021)

Books I love that deserve more critical or audience success.

Betty by Tiffany McDaniel -

• Prix des libraires du Québec for Roman-Nouvelles-Récit Hors Québec (2021),

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Historical Fiction (2020)

• Ladies of Horror Fiction Award Nominee for Best Novel (2020)

The Incarnations by Susan Barker -

• Kirkus Prize Nominee for Fiction Finalist (2015)

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by Betty Smith -

• Audie Award for Classic (2002)

Milk Fed by Melissa Broder

• No awards or much recognition (which is a huge shame!)

The Beekeeper of Aleppo by Christy Lefteri -

• Dayton Literary Peace Prize Nominee for Fiction (2020)

• Aspen Words Literary Prize (2020)

My sister the serial killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite -

• Booker Prize Nominee for Longlist (2019)

• Anthony Award for Best First Novel (2019)

• Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller (2018)

• Women's Prize for Fiction Nominee (2019)

• Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Mystery & Thriller and for Debut Novel (2019)

• BUT a low Goodreads score & not enough audience recognition!

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am annoyingly contrary. See, my initial opening line for this article was:

I’ve come to the conclusion that don’t think I enjoy monologuing.

However, as I clacked through my first draft, I realised that in fact this statement was somewhat untrue. It seems I am just a slow burner when it comes to warming to books that make me work hard at reading. These usually are the ones I hate reading in the moment, but I tend to reflect and mull over for much longer than intended long after I have finished reading.

What solidified this reflection for me was my desperation in reading and wanting to like Outline by Rachel Cusk. I’ve read a series of similar ‘monologuing’ writing styles over the summer months; while Outline was the most on the nose with this technique, Yellowface by Rebecca F. Kuang had a similar long formed talking to the reader style and suffered a similar fate with my distaste whilst reading, and to some extent The White Album by Joan Didon (although, more journal style than inner/outer monologue) also was an unhappy slog to the finish line. But the truth of it is, they have all since been a constant nag in my brain.

If the thought of reading consistent verbal and inner monologue, without much brevity for action, sounds too much of a headache (and I don’t blame you if it does) then Outline probably isn’t the book for you. Having said that, if you fancy something philosophical and self-reflective then there’s not a better book than this to get existentially sunk into. If you’re a contrarian like me, you will very much love/hate this book.

Firstly, you should know I picked the book based on two reasons alone: one, it is set in Athens, a country and culture I was eager to immerse into, and two, the cover is so crisp and gorgeous I was a magpie before I had a chance to think twice. Perhaps this way of book shopping is what leads me to bitter disappointment, but I doubt I will stop buying this way.

Whilst the core concept of Outline is learning about the characters through their conversations with the protagonist, Faye, I in fact enjoyed (and indeed learnt more about) the characters more from the small snippets of interactions with their surroundings. The descriptions of Greece, the scene setting and activities taken up by Faye were much more thrilling and imaginative to read than the long drawn out, and often overly self-indulgent, mini spoken-autobiographical accounts. A particular chapter springs to mind, where Faye has dinner with a friend and a famous female novelist at an ‘unfashionable’ restaurant in the center of town. Here we are introduced (fleetingly) to Angeliki. It is not her page(s!) long speech on the industry that capture me, but in fact the way her character plays within the scene, so full bodied and colourful it breathed life into the entire setting and the snapshot moment within it. From the minute she arrives at the restaurant, how she interacts with the waiter, her wine and food, with Faye and her friend, how she moves her body, smokes a cigarette, to the moment she leaves, Cusk was able to carve out a stunning visual in impressively few words, but was unfortunately a chapter that felt far too short and sweet for such a complex character.

Despite my issues with the writing technique, I’ve noticed in going back through the book for quotes that I had thumbed down quite a few pages which had spoken to me, one in particular folded down and highlighting (rather randomly) an analysis on the haunting nostalgia of music:

‘Music is the betrayer of secrets; it is more treacherous even than dreams, which at least have the virtue of being private’

And another which had perhaps my favourite quote of the book, hit home most unexpectedly and has plagued me relentingly:

‘[… ]I was no longer interested in literature as a form of snobbery or even of self-definition […] in fact if I read something I admired I found myself increasingly disinclined to mention it at all. What I knew personally to be true had come to seem unrelated to the process of persuading others. I did not, any longer, want to persuade anyone of anything.’

The concept goes further in it’s cleverness, by allowing the main character to confront her own life through the intricate tales of others, but the pompousness of the speeches were unrealistic and hard to grasp as to what lessons were meant to be learnt. Let alone it was a stretch to imagine that any one person could sit through another talking about themselves with such one sided speeches. I suppose it’s the intended nature of being set in Greece which explains the constant state of philosophising that each character seems to have adopted as a characteristic. It’s clever (perhaps too clever?) but often means that the characters mold into one. Perhaps, this is Cusk's intention; they are all a reflection of Faye rather than their own individual identities. This left me with the final conclusion that if every page has some sort of profound realisation, then as a whole the book loses all meaning of an epiphany. It pulls back on the punchiness and ends up a little weak.

Having said all this there are some characters I did very much enjoy and felt they were strongly thought out, these tended to be the older, grittier, most flawed female characters. Cusk’s writing style is it’s strongest here and I could read a whole book about Angeliki or Marielle (a middle aged student attending Faye’s creative writing class, who I imagined wafted in with silk scarves and a plummy perfumed scent), and I would love to have seen them explored more. 

In fact I found all the female characters so much more interesting than their male counterparts, to the extent that even the women as told through the anecdotes of the men, were much more rich and interesting to me - which I can’t ignore whether this was completely intentional by Cusk.

In the end I truly think Rachel Cusk is an excellent writer, I just think as a premise this missed the mark for me as a reader.

In general, I’ve been pondering for a while on why there is such an influx of this style of writing, until a girlfriend of mine mentioned she envisioned Yellowface as a Fleabag-esq show, which nailed it for me. A similar book last year was read in book club - How To Kill Your Family by Bella Mackie - this too had traits of the Pheobe Waller-Bridge ‘and pause for knowing look to camera smile’, tongue in cheek, inner thought style. This works, for me, as a show but unfortunately can be dull, a little conceited and often takes an unfortunate turn in to the realm of priggish when in book form - at least this is true of the books I’ve read.

Another jarring feeling I got from each of these books is that they screamed: ‘this will definitely win some kind of literary award or accolades in the publishing world’. I get it, they are different, whimsical yet edgy, and highly intelligent, but does this mean it’s actually enjoyable to read? I’m not so sure. And is the point of a book to always enjoy the read? I think the fact they’ve each stuck with me in their own way provides some testament that this might not be necessary. I’ve never understood what the phrase ‘love is a battlefield’ meant before, perhaps this is it.

The irony is also not lost on me (as this monologued writing draws to a close); it could be argued my blog itself is of a similar ilk. Here’s hoping you, dear reader, are more a fan of this style than I!

I once told a friend that I loved Jamie T. The rhythmic thud of his music was great for my runs (back when I was insane and used to run a lot), pacing each beat to the flat-footed slap of my foot fall.

But I’ll never forget a time I attended a house party (I’m aging myself here) and a lesser known song of his began to play. As she enthusiastically half rapped/half sung each lyric in my face, it came to her sudden realisation that I didn’t know the words. Along with a baffled widening of her eyes, she had exclaimed, ‘But I thought you loved Jamie T?!’.

If only Sticks N Stones, or Shelia or Zombie had blasted through the durnken mass of sweaty bodies pounding spilt alcohol into the sticky carpet and bumping against make out sofas, lifting up hands holding homemade Snake Bites, and we could all have shouted horsely in mocked accents at once: ‘Shelia goes out with her mate Stella!’. Then I could’ve chorused in like the basic fan I was, diligently spewing out every word. Or at least might’ve sang incoherent made up words that sounded oh so similar to the correct lyric but I had incorrectly interepted once and now couldn’t scramble my brain to remrember the true word, and in doing so had maintained my position as a lover of his music. Alas no, this was a song I couldn’t even pretend to know and so the love I have declared was now egg on my face and I could no longer call myself a Jamie T fan.

Now, is the issue here my being hyperbole when I say ‘I loved him’, or is the issue that I just don’t have enough passion to truly say I love anything?

Take my star sign for example; I am a Scorpio. Which I can see your brain has done the immediate equation of: Scorpio = Passionate. It thrills me that my star type should envelop this kind of characteristic but if I’m honest I’m not sure it is who I am.

Not when I compare myself to many passionate characters I know and love - I'm certainly no wistful Marianne Dashwood, even if I did spend my teenage years of basically sitting with my head in a dreamlike state of being obsessed with romance and boys. And despite my love for writing, my dedication to penmanship is little more than a scribble on the postit compared with the greats. I have a stack of embossed letter writing paper dusting away wishing to be used and the corners of my flat are now museum relics of hobbies I still harbour a muted passion for, but lack the enthuse to take up with any kind of regularity - I’m looking at you knitting needles from the year 2020. Of course unsurprisingly the most passionate people of all are poets - this a breed I am now totally enamoured by, if a little afraid of.

Having lurked on the periphery poetry for quite some time it took until I turned thirty to really ‘get’ poetry and dive into poems. It began small, with poets on instagram - women who bravely produce (what seems like daily) a stream of modern poetry that is both accessible and enviable in its metrical form. Then I waded further into the water by joining a poetry class/community, hosted by the most exuberant and grasping-life-by-the-balls kind of woman you will every come across. And now I am somewhat stonewalled by the forbearers and inundated with books upon books of classic female poets, each with more emotion than I have ever felt, let alone read about.

I’ve come to the conclusion that to be a poet, you have to be passionate with yourself and let your emotions run deep. I am utterly intimidated by Plath’s sophisticated metaphors and Sexton’s raw feelings. And in awe of poets today which manage to write lyrically yet concisely sharp. The challenges of old poets and the excitement of new - I’ve found to be educating and exhilarating. It's inspired me to write my own, and hark back to the days when I was heady with emotion, to try and tap into my youthful bubble.

It has also made me think about what it means to be passionate and if I am in the right mindset for it. I should probably check if ‘contrarian’ is a typical trait of Scorpios, I feel this I embody the most. And can a contrarian be passionate? If I’m always fence sitting, then I’m never actually latching and growing grassy roots of any one field.

And can a contented person have passion or any sort of emotional cravings? Or is contentment a masquerade of being numbed by the modern world. Sucked in by entertainment, have I forgotten to be in tune with myself, to be present, and mistaking this for satisfaction?

The final hurdle of course if the old hell hound that is fear of being derivative. Derivative of other’s works but also derivative of my own work, my own same paragraph even! Am I destined to always write the same metaphors repeatedly? Somehow writing about either food or nature springs to mind. Contrarily (smirk) I can’t get enough of food and nature writing so who’s to say what’s derivative and what is an inspired kink.

I feel it is my lot to receive passion, to consume inspiration and there’s a gate within me that doesn’t seem to open, a well that doesn’t flow outwards. I don’t think I am a giver of passion. I admire in awe but it never shines through me. Tiredness courses through my veins, and I am pumped by others elixir of life. I am a vampire (which I suppose is ‘Scorpio-like’). Not that I want to suck the passion from you! No, I want to bask in it’s radiance, share the atmosphere of the glow - in which case I guess I’m more a flower, breathing in your exhaled co2, unable to rectify my own wilting alone.

At its core, this is what makes me such a great/prolific reader. Absorbing the creativity of others. Even with as much passion as I can muster, it doesn't amount to actually living with my nose in a book. Although my child-self could attest to being that, perhaps I used up all my passion at the age of ten…

The most frustrating thing about being a passionless person with a passions is the belief, of my love, diminishing in other’s eyes. Are my passions any less meaningful that because I am not obsessed with them? I think it’s passion in my own way. Mine is not a blackhole that consumes itself; it doesn't overtake my waking life. I think I’m equal parts glad of that and disappointed by it.

I do dream to jump off the highest diving board into the deepest pool of my own soul, but I think perhaps my soul cannot withstand that kind of depth. It trickles, like a brook, no less brilliant in its beauty compared to a waterfall; perhaps it has a quiet intensity - but an intensity nonetheless.

Isn’t it annoying watching a book adaptation with an avid reader? I would know, I can annoy myself: ‘That’s not in the book!’, ‘Oh the book explains that so much better.’, ‘It’s just not as good as the book.’, are but a few common phrases you could expect. Embarrassingly many a line like this has fallen out of my mouth. In fact, I am so often passionately ‘team book’ that I revel in hatred of an impending book adaptation before a trailer is even shown. I’ll let you take a peak into my little fatalistic brain with this excerpt of a note I wrote in 2021 (for context, I had just read Daisy Jones and The Six, only to discover an adaptation was in the works):

Besides cringing at my clangour term: ‘old people’ (forgive me, it was a rush of initial thought), I still stick by my initial feelings - to an extent. My natural knee jerk default is to sulk at the creation of all book adaptations. I’m a stubborn mule like that. Can you blame me? Reading a good book is a personal affair, it’s an intimate connection. So, it’s hardly surprising that, in regards to Daisy Jones, I did expect to vehemently dislike the show - shockingly, I actually enjoyed it in the end.

The greatest disappointment was the decision to not match the book in it’s documentary style, in the book this added an air of realistic mystery when peaking into past events. Plus, I love music and am fascinated by the making of it - particularly the creations of lyrics (it’s the analytical poet in me I guess) so for me there was not enough focus on the songs and the making of music. Which is a shame because in the end I loved the music that was made for the show and have of course been listening obsessively on Spotify on repeat.

Usually the only way I enjoy a book adaptation is as long as I haven’t read the book beforehand. The power of writing stories is so impressive that I can usually tell if a show/movie was originally a book. The world building just hits different. There’s distinct intricacy that echoes at a book origin.

The success of a book adaptation can sometimes be driven by genre. Usually crime / detective novels translate better to screen whereas fantasy books rarely translate well to me. I will however contradict myself by admitting that I thought The Hunger Games films were excellent. But I didn’t read the book, so who’s to say. I loved the films so much I regret having not read the books. No doubt there are key narratives missed when trying to condense a complex written tale which takes days if not weeks to read, into a 90 minutes visual production…

The rule of thumb seems to be for me is if I enjoyed one medium first, I inevitably will hate the other. The one difference being, I always regret not having read the book. My loyalty to the book can probably be broken down into two ways - understanding characters inner thoughts and decision making will and can never be successfully translated to screen, and that I rather narcissistically imagine myself as the characters, in a strange dreamlike way where I both am and am not them - so to see another human being act it out crushes my soul. Knowing this, it’s easy to see why, even if I on the rare chance begrudgingly enjoy the adaptation, I’ll always be that viewing partner who emphatically claims: ‘It’s not as good as the book!’.

Tendrils of shadows curl around as my nose buries deeper between the pages, the outside world becomes a noir blur and I only have eyes for the printed words before me. With a slash of a sword pressed suggestively, expertly, against a neck, clammy palms fizz as we teeter on the edge of danger and power within surges. Biting my lip I can see the dark narrowed eyes flicker down to them, with an intensity that causes my stomach to drop. ‘Growling’ is hard to imagine in reality yet makes my betraying heart flutter as I read aloud the breathy, yet cutting response. A fever seems to grip as I desperately turn page by page, playing chicken with my betraying eyes which insist on flickering down to the end of the page before my brain can get there, begging to know what comes next. I’m entrapped, I am the protagonist, the book seems to have seeped into my world as much as it has melted me within the papery fold; the story has come alive.

How do you know you are reading a fantasy novel? Well, the first sign is it’s probably littered with words in italics. Italics are so gratuitously used I get the giggles every time I see this uniquely fantasy-stereotypical emphasis. Because, dear reader, just in case you were ever unclear that the magic powers caused him to fly, it had in fact caused him to fly. I can hear the ‘dun, dun, duunnnn’ strike after every italicized verb… Other tell-tale signs you are weak-kneed deep in fantasy include: growling as a use of seductive vitriol, morally grey love interests, a young (very young) female protagonist; usually feisty, usually over-looked, always entering in her era of full power and grandeur - all whilst typically alluring the most elusive and unattainable of dark haired, dark eyed, devastatingly beautiful men.

I think it’s fair to say it’s unsurprising of my generation to be so enamored by fantasy, the generation of Harry Potter very quickly led to the teenage girl cult following of Twilight. Then again, has the rumblings of a fantasy obsession been historically setting it’s cobble stoned path even further back than you would expect? Afterall, fairytale stories walked so that the fantasy genre could fly - on the back of a grumpy dragon no less. But the original fantasy must surely be mythology: monsters, lovers, enemies, fates, all powerful beings, tragedy and triumph, a land of abundance and unnatural beauty roamed by winged horses, centaurs, cyclops and nymphs. What is the mythology of the Ancient Greek world if not a fantasy realm? You could apply this to any cultural myth or folklore - let’s face it us humans love a fantastical tale.

And if we scrutinise the love of fantasy stories one step closer, a major factor of it’s appeal is, certainly, the walking oxymoron that is the virtuous yet ethically questionable love interest. May I offer the argument of what is Dracula if not an original fantasy tale’s bad boy, the original seductively bad man. In fact this love of brooding men could easily be traced back to the likes of Heathcliff, a man with a dark background, passionate with a demonic soul. Where has this thirst for sexy dark souled men come from? It’s something female readers seem to gravitate to. Jane Austen manages to tap into this, nailing down the love/hate, enemies to lovers troupe but also taunts our obsession with it in Northanger Abbey/ She pokes at fun at the rise of gothic reading young girls with a thirst for the mysteriously haunted men. Perhaps it is the historical sexual repression of women, which drives such a desire for the untouchable, the forbidden. Modern fantasy takes the female gaze a step further (thanks in part to the domination of the genre by female writers), the attraction of these men are the way in which they elevate their women. It’s their utter devotion in the face of their own standing which makes a reader swoon. There’s a balance struck between the woman belonging to him romantically, protectively, but also being besotted by and giving an unwavering devotion to her independent power. After all, what’s more attractive than: ‘My house. My chair. My woman’ (ifkyk).

It was inevitable that the film industry would simultaneously pick up on, and perpetuate further, the fantasy wave. And with good reason, steamy enemy to lover tension aside, the main driver for these kind of tales is undoubtedly the female protagonist and her race to rise against the odds. They tap into every gawky, bookish, underdog girl and empowers them to believe that they too have a shot at making an impact with their lives, or at least would one day grow up from ugly duckling to the Goddess of Seduction. I’ve always struggled with a book to movie transition, but the thing I struggle most with when fantasy novel are re-imagined on the screen, is they constantly cast model-like super women to represent your unassuming girl next door teen. This ultimately forgoes the biggest reason that we love these characters so: their personality. The allure of fantasy is the very fact that an ordinary woman with no discernible advantage at life, has the opportunity to not only save lives around her with her immense power, but bring brooding, ridiculously hot, dangerously powerful men, salivating to their knees. The female protagonists are always quippy, and funny. Dripping with sarcasm and biting comebacks that endear you to them. She’s personal to us readers, she’s so much more than the films ever manage to capture.

You’ll think me protesting too much when I say it really is the plot which makes a truly great fantasy book (not just the tension and spice, I swear!). For most fantasy enthusiasts world building is key (Fourth Wing), too much world building is a chore (The Hurricane Wars), too much steam can be eye-rolling and the, predictably, adolescent characters can render an adult fantasy reader a little too unrelated to the scenes, especially where the juvenile female leads are making cringe-worthy choices or are being questionably preyed upon (Rhapsodic), choices that perhaps seemed thrilling as a teen reader but are clunky to a 30-something-year-old, at best. Occasionally the plot can be a little trite (ACOTAR) but when an intricate storyline and robustly built characters, with rewarding character arcs, are woven into the seams of this new world that you would give anything to be a part of (ACOMAF), these books can be thrilling. A truly great book, whatever the genre, builds worlds you never want to leave, but nothing does it quite like a fantasy, with a plot that pulls you in it is the only book genre that I can never put down and frenziedly want to devour, whilst simultaneously panicking it’ll all soon be over with every chapter demolished.

As an adult-reader I’ve pulled away from the books my teenage-self obsessed over - perhaps haughtily so. I’ve favoured books I would deem as ‘books you read at school’. These are stories which I would never choose with a craving to read, but if I was forced to under the watchful eye of my English Lit teacher, I would understand the joy of the story. Like eating your greens and realising actually spinach tastes pretty good, especially sautéed with butter and garlic. These sautéed spinach books are fulfilling, clever, thought-provoking and well written. I love them, but I ignored that part of me that gets so much joy from a chocolate-fudge-sundae book full of action, romance, chaotic politics, darkness, heroism, a little bit of magic and mystical creatures.

Is it always sophisticated? Well no. But for the first time in a really long time I felt like I wasn’t just reading a book but I breathed it. I was part of it and it was part of me. I enjoyed being along for the ride, and have in being so captured it started to become harder to distinguish from my everyday reality - the teenage daydream had settled in like a candy-flossed-pink cloud. To be utterly enthralled by the excitement and blinded to the actual room you are sit in by the in-depth clarity of this new, dangerous, glorious fantasy world is, in short, just good fun.

How is it we seem to know a witch when we see a witch?

It’s something almost inexplicable but is a gut instinct that women seem to know when they behold a witch - and this isn’t an insult, it’s an empowering thing. A name which we embrace and feel a kin-ship with. More times than I can count, myself and the women in my life have uttered the words: ‘We must be witches!’. Usually when we’ve experienced similar intuitions, expressed thoughts in unison, or have been thinking about someone only to look down at your phone and realise they’ve already reached out to you. Does this mean to be a woman is to be a witch? (‘Witch’ being, for want of a better phrase, a word to describe such intuitive, kindred beings woman can be.)

Much the like people, time periods also seem to denote a ‘witchy’ vibe. The 70’s for example is definitely a ’Witch Era’, think unkempt hippy hair, free spirited inclinations, women’s right, Stevie Knicks - an obvious witch. Back as far as Ancient Rome and Egypt oracles are sort after, rituals and rites tied intrinsically to the afterlife are passionately followed, curses and of course Cleopatra, a perceived witch with style, passion, intelligence and power. Medieval England: ranging from a deep rootedness in traditional folklore and echoes of former paganism, to the accusation and execution of Anne Bolyne, The Witch Finder General and his crusade against witches of Essex, to King James and the witch trials of Scotland. Greek Mythology: looking at you Circe (and of course I have read and loved the godly, dreamlike trance state that is Madeline Miller’s novel about this very witch). Pilgrim America and the infamous Salem witch trials. Eccentric, aristocratic Victorian’s, wiling away their gothic obsession mixed with neo-rinacansse art, were witching away in their delapatated manor houses surrounded by lush sprite-enticing gardens, leading to a time of dark arts and fairy-like magic. All these time periods I can point a bony finger to and claim witch, but for me the strongest of these witchy timeframes was the 1990’s.

Perhaps the 90’s child in me was always destined to be infatuated with witchcraft. I have hazy memories of the flat my dad owned when I was little, to me there was always something witchy about it. Firstly the music, influenced by my dad’s sister in law (who possibly was the first woman I ever identified as a witch), whom he had always attributed his eclectic music taste to, including some particularly spellcasting music from the likes of Kate Bush to The Cranberries. The decor I see in my minds eye as earthy, full of plants, tie-dye and dark stained wood, decked out with trinkets from travelling - tribal & wicker. It felt like a home for the spiritual. My memories flash through with an amber film and wispy incense. I’m not sure my dad ever liked incense, and probably influence from Polaroid filters has clouded my pictural memory, but there is something so mystical about the 90s that I have never been able to shake.

It’s obvious too that commercially witch culture was eminent at this time, and certainly had its influence on me. Name a Millenial girl who wasn’t infatuated with Sabrina The Teenage Witch, Worst Witch, Charmed, Practical Magic. Not to mention the unavoidable book of the decade Harry Potter! Even the 90’s style conjures up a hocus pocus vibe; if grunge isn’t a 90’s take on the witch iconography, I’d eat my proverbial pointy black hat. An interview with The Corrs sisters totally engulfed me as a kid, so enthralled was I by their long dark hair, whispering Irish accents and hauntingly charming folksy-pop music; it was a coven before my very eyes. This era winks at my nostalgic witchy soul with every crystal dolphin figurine, evil eye amulet, every furling pack of tarot cards strewn upon a brown carpenter crafted coffee-table, tangled web dream catcher and windchime chiming (as one might expect) with a tinkling and clanking mixture of bells and wooden notes.

Or perhaps it’s my natural urge as a Scorpio to be obsessed with the darkness? Born on the second day of Allhallowtide I feel a kinship with this daringly seductive and scandalous ‘other’ world. Of course with my birthday being always intrinsically tied with Halloween, I felt a special spiritual connection to the holiday. I can fondly recount a particular birthday eve watching Hocus Pocus, surrounded by the lit pumpkins we had carved days before, a crispy bitter chill pouring in from the open front door illuminating goulish kids screaming ‘Trick or Treat!’, a tingling excitment all night knowing the next day would be my birthday. Halloween belonged to me, a secret connecting veil tie us together, one only it and I are aware of. My meek and cowardly initial response to life is always twinned with a quiet yet desperate curiosity to roam within a troublesome realm. Not to be in trouble, but to be troubling. Not to face the eye of the storm but to be the hurricane itself. This is my inner Scorpio witch.

There is of course the undeniable feminine urge within me; women wax and wane alongside the moon, our cycle so in sync with much of nature, reflective of the seasons even, the constant circle of four quarters. Something so obvious and yet mysterious, the intrinsique ties that seem so uncontrolable and powerful at once. We women, who have the ability to grow and carry our daughters own eggs within us, are so physically linked to one another and to life itself that it’s no wonder we fascinate, grieve and relate to women of the past; those who came before us who were so needlessly killed for a dark magic they didn’t possibly possess. But of course it was a kind of magic, not the potions and finger tips sparking with curse kind, but a feminine power that was feared. When I reimagine my female status in this way, I feel like magic personified.

Whatever the reason, I’ve always been hooked by this spiritual other - perhaps all bookworms are, it is why we so easily fall deeply into a story. What’s more magical than using your imagination to breath life into to the words strung together by a stranger upon a piece of paper. Reading about witches in particular is a fascinating topic as there’s always a choice between fictional fantasy and factual historical accounts - both of which are equally captivating.

In my latest read, The Ruin of Witches, it describes witches as the ‘tangible symbol of this chaos’ - ‘this’ referring to the crazed cultural climate, influenced by the unsettled political and social-economic upheaval at the time of the colonialisation of American and the pilgrim’s escape from pre-civil war England. Chaos, of course, was something of a disaster at this time and thus witches were the personification of such an uncertain and dangerous world. It truly is a privilege to now reframe the word ‘witch’ as something powerful, and reclaiming it’s meaning, when originally it was used to demonise and weaponise in such a life-threatening way. But is this a reclaiming of the word the reason why many women (myself included) are so drawn to the subject of witches? And why we are so keen to be recognised as one ourselves. To me, witches are in fact a symbol of chaos, but in this reframing the synonym of chaos is freedom.

It is this topic on witches in the real world that I pick over any other witch narrative lately. Whereas the magic of all would’ve enthralled me once upon a time, I have found increasingly it is in fact the realism of it all that I am now drawn to with books. I recall a book, Witch Child, which I remember excitedly as a young girl thinking was a period-piece set tale about women practicing actual witchcraft, only to find that the magic the character’s were accused of were in fact brewing a basic herbal remedies, or being coincidentally in the vicinity at the time of the death of a rabbit. The story disappointingly (at the time) was less sorceress and more source based, about those who are prosecuted unjustly and punished by their time as a women, a poor person, or an unwanted immigrant. What had sunk my heart so then, is now a story I simply cannot get enough of, and in fact find even more power, inspiration and charm in the realism of being a woman in such a historical context. In fairness this book was probably the first YA tale I knew of that dealt with this subject in such a realistic and grown up way, and perhaps without this enlightenment I wouldn’t have been incline to investigate this narrative further.

The Manningtree Witches is a more evolved take on this type of narrative, it presents an even more realistic reason behind the prosecution of women as witches. My love of this book was increased further when listening to Witch a podcast on BBC Sounds (forgive me for expanding my recommendations to beyond books here). I am struck in particular by the discussion on the types of women persecuted, and which social issues, and political and religious inconsistencies infiltrated communities and perpetuated the rational behind the witch trials. One thing I found fascinating about this podcast was the ability to mix witchcraft with the true historical understandings. One episode dives into the type of woman othered as a witch, and highlighted to me a curious modern stance on witches. Pop-culture has created an unusual portrayal of accused witches which has exaggerated and culturally influenced ‘truths’. For example it is a modern take on the truth of witch trials that those persecuted were strong-minded, independent, powerful women, a healer (perhaps a midwife), or a young chit who is flirty and dangerously beautiful and that the accusation are all driven by the crazed male gazed desire and fear of women with the aim to stamp them in line. While it is true historical and rigorously entrenched misogyny played a part in these persecutions, the truth is most women prosecuted were middle-age - older women, women who found themselves alone not by choice but by the changes of law and land (left destitute, not empowered), and in fact the link between midwifery and witchcraft is without real evidence.

While it makes for a good story, I wonder why we ignore the less ‘glamourous’ tale for a more punchy enthralling spin on the truth - this in itself feels a oversight and injustice to the suffering of women. That being said, I’ll be the first to say I am engrossed by the ‘sexier’ version of events, and I think it’s such a popular myth because it runs a parallel with modern female strife’s, this allows us to feel not only empowered in our own time, but closer to our troubled sisters in the past. If you love the idea of historical witches I think there is nothing better than a tale set in Scotland: Corrag is a great book set in the heart of witch-hunt times. But if you want something unexplainable with a theme of ancestorial connection, then out of all the witchy books I’ve read this season, The Winter Sea might be the autumnal book to reach for.

Lastly, it’s worth touching on the concept of the ‘bad witch’, the evil, scary witch from fairytales and horror stories, because of course there is nothing that is wholly good or wholly bad, and stories of dark twisted characters brimming with maledictions and desires to rain dark incantations are salaciously appealing, particularly this time of year. If you want to go full witchery with a book, one that is pure story and exciting magical action, then I would recommend fully immersing yourself in the parallel medieval world, full of terror and evil, of Uprooted; the best book I’ve read this year.

Many things in the world are enchantingly mysterious and spiritually unexplainable, I feel there’s something joyous and harmonious in that. We should (and some extent now do) celebrate this veiled realm. Nothing is more humbling nor more exciting than the unknown mysteries of life, there’s nothing that brings us closer to earth, or the meaning of our being, than the shadowy folds within reality, where I believe a kind of magic pulsates and grows. Perhaps this is the womb of the earth, where woman is grown and where witch is born.

Literacy has played a huge part of my life, from a young age I spent every waking hour with my nose in a book, to the point where I would get in trouble for reading too much – squinting in the darkness of bedtime desperate to cram in just one more chapter, hour long soaks in the bath, car journeys, forgoing completing chores and, in a time before iPhones, books would accompany to every single toilet visit. In my teenage years I was able to explore creating my own stories, finding a love for writing short fiction and leading me to university to study journalism (where I quickly realised I did not want to be a journalist, not in the traditional ‘legacy media’ sense anyway). In a sense it’s inevitable that my journey lead me here, writing my own articles solely dedicated to literature.

Reaching this conclusion was not as easy as you would think. It’s all too easy to get sucked into this Instagram world where there are influencers galore, and so to find my voice amongst the plethora of writers and internet successes caused a procrastination which lasted for over a year (no joke).

So I stripped back to the basics. Writing feels natural to me and I missed doing it. After deciding that the path of newspaper journalist was not for me I hung up my pen and paper and left my creative writing to dust in the corner of my mind. And while becoming a e-commerce Business Analyst has given me a sense of pride and enjoyment working in the fashion industry, my fingers twitched with the longing to write again. Books were the constant in my life, my specialist subject - and they say write what you know.

With my content topic decided, first was the fear of the quality of my work and - bear with me here - what revived me was a quote from a Netflix original film: Set it up. The main character, Harper, has a similar conundrum to me - crippling writers block caused by the elusive self-doubt monster, and it is her best friend who delivers the, for me, award winning line:

“Of course your first draft is going to be bad! It's going to be terrible. Then what do you do?[...] you go back and you make it better. Because you can't make it better until you actually do it.”

After deciding that the quality of my writing should not diminish my love of writing I was then struck by my second conundrum - the volume of ‘writers and bloggers’ in the world. Feeling tentative as I create my website, knowing that there must be millions of young women like me out there doing the very same thing, I was comforted by an article I read in The Times Sunday magazine by India Knight. I may think the internet is inundated with bloggers like me but as India Knight put it: ‘The internet used to be fun’. Gone are the days of getting lost down a rabbit hole of blog after blog. She suggests Twitter and Podcasts have killed the blog, and I have to agree. Not that I dislike either of those mediums (in fact I am a self-confessed podcast addict), but in a world of fast consumerism; snippets of punchy snappy opinion has overtaken the labour of love that is blogging. And what does this mean? It means: ‘What we have lost is intimacy. And, with the demise of those personal websites, we have lost the sense that it is OK to live a flawed, ordinary life, and that such a life can also be rich and interesting‘. India hits the nail on the head.

I felt it too, finding it a chore to look for decent websites to explore, even the well-established sites leave little to the imagination, becoming predictable or repetitive and this has given me the confidence to get back on my writing pedal and take on the challenge to fill some of that internet void - if only at least for my self.

I hope this Substack will become a go to for people interested in literature and thought pieces, opinions and shared experiences. I believe books create a simple but powerful connection between humans, knowing that another out there has read a line from a book and felt a tug at their heartstrings the same as you have, or even simply finding shared experiences its characters knowing that the author has understood something about you. These articles might not save the world or be of a topic of much highbrow substance, but if it can create that feeling of connection which feels lacking in a world so technologically advanced in communication, then I know I have brought some joy and fun back to the internet for someone out there just like me.

And so here I present to you, my very bad, terrible awful, garbage of a first article - note the cliched title. But, it’s written, I’ve done it and may it be smite with every criticism and scrutiny but I don’t care. I’m on my way and I’m excited for the growth of my writing and this Substack. I hope everyone enjoys this labour of love of mine and mostly I hope you will find a shared connection through the thing I love most, the written word.

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