Building blocks
Slowing down, catching up, taking stock
We’re not going to talk about the fact that November is a week away and I’m only now reviewing my September reads, albeit with a side of waffle. It’s been acknowledged, and we can move on swiftly.
This newsletter? blog? I don’t actually know what we’re calling our Substack publications these days, but outer monologue (RIP nascent musings, gone but never forgotten) turned one yesterday and I have to say, I’m pretty damn proud of myself for sticking with it this long. If you’re here from bookstagram, you’ve probably seen me express a similar sentiment whenever that account reaches an anniversary, because it’s the truth. For the entire first two decades (… that didn’t send me spiralling…) of my life, and then some, I lacked the self-respect, -belief and to an extent, -esteem, to stay consistent and committed to endeavours that brought me joy and peace of mind, especially if they required a degree of vulnerability. Forget consistency and commitment, I never even bothered to get started on the things I wanted to do. No, we’re not going to unpack that now, but again, I must express my sincere gratitude for the development of my frontal cortex. Though I still hate being perceived (lies, really, but also truth), and often get stage fright when I think about the fact that across the two platforms, I have an audience of … two secondary schools’ worth of people, I love the sense of fulfilment I get when I press that publish button (sorry Instagram, sunset time for you).
Disclaimer — if you take issue with my excessive use of brackets, which I’m well aware of, please see below:
I still have no desire to add to the noise of the writing/writer discourse, but given that Substack is now my main form of content consumption (another hot topic, btw — everything is discourse, apparently), I do often ponder my place in what’s undeniably an extremely saturated space.
What am I doing this for?
Before I started my bookstagram, I remember talking to a friend about wanting a public creative outlet, but not having a ‘niche’ to lean into — this was back in 2021. Her response was ‘you are your niche,’ and I know that in 2024, that phrase encapsulates an increasingly prevalent sentiment. A, you’re a wise woman.
I’d be lying if I said that hitting 200 subscribers earlier this week didn’t feel like an achievement, that I didn’t also feel a sense of accomplishment at 100; an appetite for validation is a basic human condition, supposedly. So yeah, numbers and quantitative milestones are nice, but what’s nicer are the voice notes from my friends saying they’re reading my latest post on their way into work. The evening WhatsApp that they’ve just logged off and are about to dive in. What fills my cup is ‘I was looking for your article to send to someone, because you express things in a way I can’t;’ it’s ‘I’ve added x, y and z to my tbr because of your review;’ ‘reading this felt like a conversation with you’ — so the list goes on.
A wider audience that engages so thoughtfully with what I put out is, of course, incredible. But without the encouragement of the people I love, this would’ve been yet another abandoned passion project, a half-baked-and-tossed-aside idea. Kind of want to publish a book now, so that I can go ham in the acknowledgments.
I’m a lucky woman.
As Alex Lewis writes in his piece I Depend on You:
I need my people. I’m not self-made. I don’t believe any of us are. Anything I’ve ever earned is a result of the people who helped me get there and encouraged me to keep showing up.
You can read it in full below: a beautiful love letter to the people that build and hold us up.
Okay, sentimentality over. The past few months have been a blur (see: this post) and I actually can’t remember much of what I did in September, nor can I be bothered digging through my camera roll to refresh my memory. Yes, there’s probably something related to gen z neuroscience to be said there, but that’s not my job. One highlight was spending the entire month off Instagram — its funeral really is imminent, given the mass exodus from it in recent months. I wrote some reflections on my time away, naturally, but again, discourse and noise and enough has been said on the topic already. Highly recommend, is what I will say.
I’m torn, because where books are concerned, that’s still my primary platform so to speak, but logging back in for just one week reminded me of why I left it in the first place. Endless posts about how to boost your engagement, carousels with little to no context, superficial ‘challenges’, glaring ignorance towards current events (I could make an entire post on this) — just ew. I am but a woman, however, and having put so much time and effort into building a community and platform like that – relatively modest, but still notable – not to mention the benefits *cough free books cough*, makes it hard to let go of. Unfortunately I haven’t established myself, in the eyes of publishers, as a person who reviews on Substack, so I don’t think I’ll be able to fully retire the booksta just yet.
Okay now the waffling is TRULY over, onto the pièce de résistance: the book reviews. September was a special one because it brought me the five-star darling that I’d been on the hunt for since May — Irish lit forever <3
In chronological order of finish date, here’s what I read last month (asterisks denote gifted books):
-Everyone I Know is Dying by Emily Slapper*
I’m so glad I was mentally stable while reading this because if I’d picked it up during a depressive episode, I … yeah. Lots of thoughts and feelings — a relief that I was in the right headspace to process them.
Initially, I thought that Iris would be the archetypal unlikeable female protagonist – which I usually love, by the way – but as she unravelled and we got a deeper insight to her psyche, I couldn't feel anything other than empathy and pity. The author handles the topic of severe and debilitating depression with impressive sensitivity, which is no small feat. I also enjoyed the subtle exploration of class and its influence on friendships, especially among women. Despite her very deep flaws and questionable, often pretty shitty decisions, I just wanted the poor girl to be happy.
-The Safekeep by Yael van der Wouden*
Very hot and very mysterious and very lesbian; long live sapphic slow burners — the suspense on all fronts was extremely well done, I thought. I also had no idea about the Netherlands’ rich Jewish history, so feel like I learnt a lot.
-Evenings & Weekends by Oisín McKenna
J’adore. 5/5. 10/10. Smash.
As a born and raised Londoner, I’m always sceptical of contemporary books set in London, especially those that gain traction in the mainstream and are penned by authors of a certain demographic. The gentrifier perspective is often stifling (cough Okay Days) and I usually end up hating them. But of course an Irishman did it well.
Speaking of Prolific Irish Writers™️, you should read my insanely talented friend Ross Kelly’s piece on the home he’s found in London. Like, right now. Truly magnificent.
Most, if not all ‘location as a character’ literature I’ve read has been set somewhere in the US, so I’ve never felt that visceral connection before. Evenings & Weekends though, my goodness. Part of growing up is inevitable disillusionment with your hometown (I think?) but it’s a weird one when your hometown is a big city that so many people see as a benchmark. Most of the new friends I’ve made in recent years are from elsewhere and I’ve found that experiencing the city with them, through their eyes, ever so slightly reveals the romanticism of it that I was blind – or at least immune – to. This sensation could be a think-piece of its own, but back to Evenings & Weekends: I felt like I was city-dwelling alongside all the characters and would die for each and every one of them. Special shoutout to Rosaleen; I actually cried at the description of her intimacy with Steve on their train journey home from London.
Cherry on top: Oisín is a raging Corbynite, and it shows. What’s not to love? (If my politics were ever unclear, consider the matter clarified). Feel like pure shit just want the hope of 2019 back.
-The Unwilding by Marina Kemp
I don’t have a lot to say about this one (complimentary). Such masterful storytelling — Kemp does a phenomenal job of weaving together the perspectives of two such distinct narrators. It’s a difficult one to review without giving spoilers, but I had a great time.
-If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English by Noor Naga
My review of this could be an entire essay in itself, many a thought was thunk. Here goes.
One could assert that a good book is one that gets you thinking, questioning, pondering, trying to reconcile conflicting sentiments. That line of argument would make this a phenomenal one. On the flip side, a bad book is one that sells itself as one thing, stringing you along and turns out to just be another load of orientalist vitriol. Hm.
What drew me in was the topic of woman belonging to the diaspora ‘returning’ to her ‘homeland’ — this is a trope I always find fascinating (as a woman who hasn’t visited either of her ‘native’ countries. Never would I feel qualified to write about either of them, even if I had). As a brown Brit, the musings on belonging neither here nor there spoke to my soul.
Naga is undoubtedly a talented writer — the prose was sharp and incisive, and she didn’t cower from unsightly themes and experiences. The duality that she gave to the relationship – undeniably an abusive one – was extremely well done, I thought (but part 3 can fuck off, more on that to follow). There wasn’t remotely any sense that the narrator was an apologist, or justifying anyone’s actions, but still she managed to give humanity to both sides, particularly in light of the sociopolitical context.
So onto the final part — to put it bluntly, it annoyed the life out of me but funnily enough, it’s the part I saw getting most praise on Goodreads. The group dissecting parts 1 and 2 was very meta, and to me that felt like the author trying to convince the reader how they should feel towards the narrative, rather than letting them draw their own conclusions. Also, not too interested in (white) American opinions on the social fabric of a land they have no connection to, or awareness of, beyond the fact that it is part of ‘the Orient’. But then authorial intent. Much to think about.
It’s been weeks and my thoughts are still percolating, so I might at some point in the future backtrack and be like holy shit that was actually a masterpiece. But in the meantime, meh. Thought-provoking, well-structured and -written, but felt very much like it was catering to a western gaze.
Circling back to Irish lit, an evening at Annie Mac’s literary salon at the London Irish Centre at the beginning of October – with Ross at that, the real pioneer – has inspired me to attempt another All-Irish month in November. March was a success, but I still have a plethora of books by Irish authors scattered around my room waiting to be read. No, I’m not ready to finish Intermezzo (I’m dragging it out for as long as humanly possible), so what better way to fill time than with her compatriots? If you fancy joining the fun, or have any must-read recommendations, do let me know!
You can read about Irish March here, if you’re curious (alternatively: Naseerah begging Ireland to love her back).
Hasta la próxima xxxxxxx
P.S. Yet again, minimal editing has gone into this and my brain is fried, so if you’ve spotted any typos or grammatical faux pas, no you haven’t!!! Also couldn’t think of a title or subtitle so please don’t overanalyse — think ‘no one knows what it means but it’s provocative’ <3
Found you from Instagram but staying because of the writing 🩵love your style
love your book reviews :') ❤️