Delving into the mind of a person living with schizophrenia is a bold move and one that has to be executed with expertise and minimal melodrama. James Rice does both of these with ease and consistency, creating a character that is both convincing and tragic.

 

Flitting between the diary entries of an isolated teenager and transcripts from police interviews with Greg’s classmates and family members, you see a warped view of the world and the head space in which Greg inhabits. Passages switch from observational lucidity to strewn sentences with scatter-gun punctuation to incessant ramblings. External characters such as teachers, his beloved  heroine Alice and his family only exist within the pages of Greg’s diary or their brief appearances in police interviews which means you never know how much of Greg’s story you can believe. All you know is that he is frightened of Them to the point where he has visible reactions of vomiting and black outs and that since one night at a party, no one has seen or heard from him.

Greg is a would-be hero held up in a Fun House mirror. All of his actions have the right source but the way in which the world sees him is tainted and infected with judgement and ignorance. Bold, brave and beautifully delivered, this book took my breath away.

--

I read Everything Everything by Nicola Yoon for Book Club and raced through it. Having not read any YA in what feels like forever, I was ready to be swept away by an impossible romance with two characters who have everything stacked against them.

 

Literally EVERYTHING.

Madeline Whittier is allergic to the outside world. So allergic, in fact, that she has never left the house in all of her seventeen years. But when Olly moves in next door, and wants to talk to Maddie, tiny holes start to appear in the protective bubble her mother has built around her. Olly writes his IM address on a piece of paper, shows it at her window, and suddenly, a door opens. But does Maddie dare to step outside her comfort zone? 

The concept of a teenager not being able to physically leave the confines of her house (albeit a Grand Designs house in a beautiful part of America) and not having any prior experience of the outside world is incredibly strong but after a while the characters become so vivid that they take on the story and leave the concept behind. The writing is simple, at times factual where Maddie writes of her routine and Olly’s schedule as she watches the comings and goings of the residents next door.

Completely told from Maddie’s perspective, her voice was surprisingly mature and developed which was at odds with what I was expecting of someone who has only ever encountered their mother, nurse and tutors after they have gone through a rigorous deep-cleansing routine to rid them of germs from the outside world.

There is a fantastic twist (which I guessed at page five but was still satisfied with). I was left wanting more, and I still want to know what happens next which is always a sign of a good read. Entertaining, romantic and original, I’d read more of Nicola’s work any day.

 

 

Hey you, Happy National Poetry Day!  

 

At school I always thought poetry had to follow a set rhythm, like nursery rhymes, the times tables or the alphabet -  which on a side note has changed rhythm, how the hell did that happen?!

But maybe not so much anymore, now I like poetry that doesn’t always fit together, but comes alive by jarring at the edges. I still get a bit intimidated by spoken word, and that’s more a reflection on me than the artists who write and perform. I think it’s because I find it so confrontational, the words aren’t on a page patiently waiting for me to grasp the poet’s intentions, instead the poet is right in front of me, daring me to think differently and provoke a reaction. I need to get braver at that and go to more slams -  if anyone can recommend London/Essex sessions please let me know!

And guess what? One of my poems Dance has been included in an anthology, The Great British Write Off 2015, out 30th November, so that’s COOL.

READ AS NOT COOL, ACTUALLY VERY NERVOUS FOR OTHER PEOPLE TO BE READING ACTUAL WORDS.

In other news, the black tabby is still up to mischief and has taken to jumping at shadows on the wall which is both hilarious and adorable. Named after the smallest member of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s tribe of Cats inspired by TS Eliot, (not Puddleduck, Khan or Rooper as some have guessed) she is our own little literary homage.

I’ll leave you with these lines from my favourite poet, Jo Shapcott -  her poem Hairless has stayed with me since I first read it in her collection Of Mutability, four years ago. Having lost a dear friend to cancer after a fight that lasted most of my life, the image of a strong woman roaring and singing with strength was all too familiar and I was and am still grateful to her for portraying the warrior rather than the victim.

 

 

The rhythm of life here, across the dusty track and beyond the five-barred wooden gate, is tidal. A field thrumming with nature’s small noises, a buzz, chirp, swoosh and patter - a symphony of sound. The moon and winds measure our days, white fringes of waves enticing us around the headland.

Fire pit ashes and charred logs mark late-night gatherings, with our heads tilted up to the endless skies. Amber dashes and pink ribbons streak across the duck-egg blue. All the while, darker tones and silvery lights creep around our shoulders and soak into the horizon. 

Deep skies give way to dusky, amber mornings and sea mists curl around creeks and twist under steel bridges. An early sharpness to the air announces the marriage between summer and autumn as dewy beads evaporate in the glowing heat.

The great thing about audiobooks is that the magic is unfolding in your ears. That’s to say it’s not in anyone else's. You can listen to what you want, when you want and you don’t have to lug around a bright yellow Walkman to do it.

I did rock that bright yellow Walkman for a solid four years on a really jazzy belt from Tammy.

I've recently got into podcasts. Welcome to Night Vale by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor  -  a Stephen King-esque eerie small town America creepfest which is keeping me happy until the next American Horror Story rolls around, and Scroobius Pip’s Distraction Pieces, more conversational topics and interviews, being my regular go-to downloads.

Last week I was under the weather and there really is only so much daytime TV you can watch when your Netflix subscription has ended. I swiped into iTunes and scrolled for a good story. Roughly once a year (unless I’m doing a re-watch marathon) I will become Game of Thrones obsessed. I’ve always declared my utter trust in HBO’s interpretation of George R.R. Martin’s holy text and said that I wouldn’t read the books because those guys at the network were doing such a stellar job.

Oh the naivety.

The uproar at the latest season’s developments from some of my friends left me with some sort of feeling similar to being duped. All around me friends were rolling their eyes and tutting and generally muttering that things had gone off piste and taken a sharp left away from George’s designs.

So dear friends, I am listening to the very first installment, A Game of Thrones, not exactly going back on my word as I’m not technically reading it. I’m also not lifting weights on my commute with the door-wedge of a novel, but I am catching up and then I can join in with the eye-rolling mutterings for the next season.

I expect to be flabbergasted,

But still.

I would rather my first reaction to be to order prints to be delivered, archive them in a real touchy-feely, chunky album. Have it for years to come on a shelf for a rainy Tuesday evening, to leaf through actual photographs with inky scrawled writing on the back with names, dates, places and exclamation marks. My parents’ house is teeming with photos, their kitchen door is our wall of fame, from first steps and fancy dress, to graduation, barbeques and birthdays. Each photo competing for space but each face beaming or squinting into the sunlight, sometimes blurry where one of us moved before the camera had snapped. Christmas jumpers and corduroys, dungarees and baggy hoodies, wetsuits and Easter bonnets, mark our family’s history and I love soaking it in whenever I’m home.

In those years down the lane I want my future children to inherit tomes of our travels and have that shared experience of crowding around a sofa and laughing at haircuts and board shorts. I don’t want them to inherit passwords and security questions and number of likes.

So that’s that. I’ve ordered prints and I’m making an album and I’ve made myself a little oath to not rely on a digital wall but to actually make these happy times and small moments of blissful light actual real physical things, on bookshelves and mantelpieces.