Looking at other people's bookshelves is fascinating!
Do share a favourite book, or a book you would like to read one day.
Looking at other people's bookshelves is fascinating!
Do share a favourite book, or a book you would like to read one day.
Although I learned to read early, before I started school, I never really started reading books until my mid-20s. Then, when I scraped into uni at 28, I was force-fed them... and realised how much catching up I had to do! After that, for years I'd be reading all the time. I'd carry a book around with me like most people now carry phones. I'd read everywhere: on buses, in supermarket queues, in the loo (my favourite place!). For several years now, I haven't been able to read at all. But now it's starting to come back. I'm a slow reader. I know people who can read a whole novel in a few hours. But I like to savour the experience of reading, and take my time with a book. Even a short novel can take me a couple of weeks. Also, I can't sit for hours with a book. I need to take it in small bites! I'm fascinated by styles and effects that writers use, and will re-read passages over and over if they especially impress me. If I'm honest, too, I'm a big fan of style over content. If the story is flimsy, but the style grabs me, I'll read on. On the other hand, if the story looks really interesting but the style is bland... I can't carry on. I mainly read fiction, and short stories are my favourite form (Chekhov is the master!). Mainly American writers, too. I don't see much current British fiction that appeals. So much of it seems to be about the lives of the middle-classes, which doesn't interest me in the least! Favourite writers are Raymond Carver, Bukowski, John Steinbeck, John Cheever, Alice Munro. I like realism or naturalism. I'm not a fan of fantasy. I had to read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings at school and hated them! I also couldn't get on with Harry Potter. She's a hugely imaginative writer, but it's not my thing. I may try her Robert Braithwaite books sometime. I like a good thriller, and the hard-boiled stuff of writers like Raymond Chandler. I'm not widely-read, and have huge gaps in some of the stuff I think I really ought to have read. I find bookshops and libraries intimidating because of that! It's like being confronted with the mountain of my ignorance!
I don't have room for all my books in my tiny flat, so have boxes of them in the loft. I can't get rid of them. Here's a few of what I keep out, though...


This is fascinating... like you I have gone through various stages as a reader - a bit like this cartoon:
That cartoon is so true for me - as is the first one you posted. I certainly, too, understand the frustration. Today is the start of National Novel Writing Month. You have the whole of November to write a novel of 50k words - about 1,800 a day. I've done it a few times. In fact, the first novel I wrote was done during NaNoWriMo in 2011... eventually hitting 75k words. I've been trying and trying for months to get something started, and have a whole folder of first chapters. I can't work to a plot. I just have to have a basic idea and see where it leads me. I'm determined to try to do something this November. I've got half a day left to find 1,800 words from somewhere. At the moment, I haven't a clue...
It's good exercise, though, because it forces you to simply focus on getting words down. You don't have time to pretty them up or edit anything. As Hemingway said, it's just about getting black on white!
Yes, I've heard that one. I like micro-fiction and flash-fiction, too. It's like poetry. You don't have a lot of space, and you have to make every word count. Some of my favourites of my own stories are 500-worders. I've got a few 200-worders, too. Here's one you might like. A bit of humour, in spite of the subject...
OLD ADAM – a backwoods tale
The old guy sups his whiskey. Sniffs.
“Couple years back, fellah lived up top of the mountain road. Had a cabin there. Scratched a living trapping. Came down for provisions, that’s all. Kep’ to hisself.”
Another sup.
“Well… he doesn’t show for a week. Then two. Folks starts wonderin’. Bunch of fellahs goes up to look. Cabin door’s open. Empty, though. They search around inside, find a journal he’d been keeping. Last entry was two weeks before.
Something’s up the woods. Awful sounds in the night. Going up tonight to investigate.
“They take their guns, follow the trail. Two miles in, they find his boot. Nothin’ else… ‘ceptin’ his foot, still inside. They do the sensible thing. Skee-daddle.”
The bar-room glooms up. Clouding out there.
“Next day, a possee gets up. All the townsmen. Every one – ‘ceptin’ me, who’s dead drunk.”
He shakes his head.
“Never see’d any of ‘em again. Twenny-six men, three generations. Gone.”
A sudden wind bangs the shutters.
“Just me left now. Me… an’ thirty lonesome womenfolks.”
He finishes his drink, pours another.
“Guess I oughta go up there, too.”
A twist in his mouth. Sparkle in his eye.
“Thing is, just ain’t found the time.”
Yes, Hemingway was right! Sometimes hard to switch off your editing head when you are in writing mode.. I really like the concept of micro fiction - went to a brilliant workshop on this once. Brilliant because the writing was focused on an object, like that very famous shortest of all short stories: 'For sale: baby shoes, never worn'
This is sometimes attributed to Hemingway:
Yes, Hemingway was right! Sometimes hard to switch off your editing head when you are in writing mode.. I really like the concept of micro fiction - went to a brilliant workshop on this once. Brilliant because the writing was focused on an object, like that very famous shortest of all short stories: 'For sale: baby shoes, never worn'
This is sometimes attributed to Hemingway:
Yes, I've heard that one. I like micro-fiction and flash-fiction, too. It's like poetry. You don't have a lot of space, and you have to make every word count. Some of my favourites of my own stories are 500-worders. I've got a few 200-worders, too. Here's one you might like. A bit of humour, in spite of the subject...
OLD ADAM – a backwoods tale
The old guy sups his whiskey. Sniffs.
“Couple years back, fellah lived up top of the mountain road. Had a cabin there. Scratched a living trapping. Came down for provisions, that’s all. Kep’ to hisself.”
Another sup.
“Well… he doesn’t show for a week. Then two. Folks starts wonderin’. Bunch of fellahs goes up to look. Cabin door’s open. Empty, though. They search around inside, find a journal he’d been keeping. Last entry was two weeks before.
Something’s up the woods. Awful sounds in the night. Going up tonight to investigate.
“They take their guns, follow the trail. Two miles in, they find his boot. Nothin’ else… ‘ceptin’ his foot, still inside. They do the sensible thing. Skee-daddle.”
The bar-room glooms up. Clouding out there.
“Next day, a possee gets up. All the townsmen. Every one – ‘ceptin’ me, who’s dead drunk.”
He shakes his head.
“Never see’d any of ‘em again. Twenny-six men, three generations. Gone.”
A sudden wind bangs the shutters.
“Just me left now. Me… an’ thirty lonesome womenfolks.”
He finishes his drink, pours another.
“Guess I oughta go up there, too.”
A twist in his mouth. Sparkle in his eye.
“Thing is, just ain’t found the time.”