I logged onto this blog this week and realised just how neglected it's been. I need to do just about 101 things to it to make it look and read how I'd like but we'll save that for another day when I'm feeling a little more techy (ie absolutely never).
I'm not under any illusions that anyone actually reads this except my immediate family (which still constitutes quite a large readership, the perks of being one of six), but having actually finished uni - for good this time - I just really miss writing. Afraid that this feeling would send me into a misguided sense of desire to do a PHD (GOD forbid) I decided the only thing for it is to start up the old blog again and see what happens.
Having OD'ed on theatre over the past year, but still feeling like a complete play going novice in comparison to some of my classmates, I'm taking a break from all things Shakespeare. I'm finally enjoying reading for leisure again and literally devoured numerous books over the summer. However, I'm well aware that 'numerous books' to me and 'numerous books' to an actual book blogger is wildly different. Fully fledged book bloggers get through about 10 or 12 books a month as far as I can tell, and that's just not how I roll. Trying to fit all that reading around working (yes I actually got a job) and all the other things I love like cooking, fitness and just general life feels too much like a chore. Also, Netflix.
So from now on this blog will be less strictly bookish themed and just bits of writing that pop up. I'm an adult now. I can do what I like.
At risk of sounding totally hypocritical and slightly psychopathic, I am now going to do a very bookish post of all my summer reads (yes I am changeable, no I'm not ashamed). NB. according to recent news, psychopaths are recognisable through their love of gin, black coffee and dark chocolate. No mention of red wine and Quorn scotch eggs though.
The Miniaturist - Jessie Burton
There was a period of time this year when you couldn't go into a bookshop without being bombarded with a display of Jessie Burton's debut novel. Having read the blurb numerous times and not quite grasping what the book would be about aside from potentially a creepy doll's house, I decided to take the plunge and read my first mainstream book in years.
Nella is a young woman married off to a rich older businessman in Amsterdam, forced away from her family home and into a solitary and gothic household. An interesting premise and a real page-turner. There are two strands to the story: Nella's distant and mysterious husband, and her seemingly prophetic doll's house. These come together slowly and methodically throughout the story, but the final chapters left me dissatisfied and confused. Burton leaves so many unanswered questions, opens so many boxes that just stay wide ajar for eternity. And there's nothing worse than unfinished business. Don't get me wrong, I like an open ended conclusion that leaves you to make your mind up, but this just felt a little unintentional. Like the story had snowballed and abruptly reached its word limit.
An emotive plot line, but with occasional stilted language and loose ends that leave a lot to be desired, I struggled to understand the hype around this book.
Cat's Eye - Margaret Atwood
I purchased this for 50p on one of those unheard of afternoons where you have a free hour to explore the London streets, finding a second hand book stall set up in a quiet residential road, and absolutely go to town on their wares. Both my sister and mum are huge Atwood fans but I was yet to read anything by her.
Cat's Eye follows Elaine through a return to her hometown of Toronto, where she is overcome by memories of her traumatic childhood and development into an adult. As so many authors try to do, Atwood utilises a child's voice and manipulates it to create the oh so unreliable but revealing narrator. A rarity for so many books like this, Atwood manages to combine a childlike and naive point of view with the retrospective knowledge and insight of an adult looking back. The book is a brutal one; the tale of young girls, best friends, who can be so cruel to one another, and the longterm effects it has on someone's life and creative output. It is not sentimental, it is not wishy washy, but it touches on the mental impact of early experiences and relationships in a way that is so relevant in today's society, perhaps more so than ever.
A beautiful and brilliant book that effected me deeply and has well and truly set me off on the Atwood path.
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I'm splitting the summer book haul into two posts because it would just be too long otherwise. After the overload of reviews I may do something unthinkable and share some of my creative writing. I'm sure you're all (hi Mum) dying to read it.
