A man came in and asked my colleague to recommend a great crime book. She showed him several but he wasn’t keen. She sent him down to me on the fiction floor. He said he wanted something that was a big adventure, maybe crime, but not dull, it had to have everything.
I asked what he had read and enjoyed previously. He said Dan Brown. Sigh. I showed him Kate Mosse “Labyrinth” and said that whilst I haven’t read it myself it has been touted as the intelligent female version of “Da Vinci Code”. He held it and said “Maybe.”
Then I was inspired, and said “Ooh, I know…Kate Atkinson’s “Case Histories”. It’s a detective story, hugely enjoyable. It’s a page turner where you really want to know what happens, It’s an easy read, but extremely well written, I can recommend it without hesitation.”
He held that in his hands too.
Then he told me that actually he has never read a book written by a woman, and didn’t think he’d start now, but thanks. He handed the books back whilst I protested. He left.
Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld.
I loved this book, absolutely adored it. It was insightful and fun and embarrassing and wonderfully observational. It is about an American “Prep”; a boarding school for rich people that Lee, the main character, wins a scholarship to. So some of the things described are alien, but the teenage stuff is excruciatingly spot on and universal.
Truth and recognition in any book, film, music or comedy is what makes me fall in love with it. I suppose the things that I feel as truth are personal to me, and so when I hear them articulated by somebody else I feel a little less alone in the world. This paragraph just thrilled me;
“…I looked at the floor around my chair to make sure I hadn’t dropped anything. I was terrified of unwittingly leaving behind a scrap of paper on which were written all my private desires and humiliations. the fact that no such scrap of paper existed…never decreased my fear.”
Perfect!
I devoured this book. It’s wonderful when you read something that captures your imagination so much that you are constantly waiting for the next opportunity to read. I will definitely buy her next novel, and feel sad that this one is finished.
http://www.waterstones.com/waterstonesweb/displayProductDetails.do?sku=3821701
Grrrrrrrrr
It’s one of those shitty, shabby days where everything is off from the get go.
And I have written and deleted, written and deleted, inbetween bouts of net surfing and eating, and have now ended up with nothing. Nothing but self loathing.
The library.
I work in a bookshop. I love books. I covet books. I buy books. I have two huge bookcases in my lounge stuffed with the very best of my books. I read book reviews and think, hmmm, that one sounds great, I’d love to read it. I put stock out at work and store interesting titles and my favourite authors in the staff reservations cupboard until one day when I can afford them. This month there are at least 7 titles that I really want to read, but, sad face, I have no money.
At my old book shop we were allowed to borrow the books that we wanted to. The manager felt that as long as they were returned in pristine condition that it was fine for us to do this. He liked the fact that we had in depth knowledge of our stock. I would borrow the hardback books and read them ultra carefully, nobody would ever be able to tell that I had read it. The bookshop I now work in doesn’t allow this practice, and I really understand why. As a buyer I would be beyond furious to know that someone had already opened my book. I like uncracked spines and clean pages and general newness. That is why i loathe and detest library books. they feel slightly sticky, they lack the whoo heady glory of a brand new publication, and other people have eeew, touched them.
When I was young I swear I found dried spunk on the pages of a sex scene. This scarred me.
Now, I am poor. And I have children who I wish to encourage to read. I kept on buying then ace kids book from work, but even with a staff discount providing enough books for my twins is too costly. So in summer we signed up to our local village library, and the boys did the Reading Mission. I have been going back and swapping 4 books every couple of weeks. This week for the first time I stood there and pondered on the fact that there are adult books too. Suddenly a light bulb went off in my head;
*I could read books for free*
I could just borrow books. it was as if the concept of a library had previously escaped me. What a wonderful and amazing thing. One can borrow books to read. And not pay. Amazing.
So I duly scoured the shelves for books I want. I am after particularly “A lover of unreason” the new biography of Assia Wevil (Ted Hughes second wife), I want to read Margaret Atwood’s latest collection of stories, Kate Atkinson’s new one “One good turn”, Mark Haddon’s “A spot of bother”, one by a new author, and I can’t remember her name right now, but I’d know it if I saw it!, the new Les Murray “The biplane houses”, and I also want Melissa Banks “The wonder spot.”
I looked for all of these, and found none. So I then looked at every book on each fiction/biography and poetry shelf. This didn’t actually take very long. There aren’t that many books there. I found “Prep” by Curtis Sittenfeld, and yes, I have looked at that before and thought I wouldn’t mind reading it. And I found a very trashy read; “Paula, Michael and Bob” all about Paula Yates. That’s it. That’s when the joy faded and I realised that I could read any number of historical romances but the only current new literary fiction hardback available was “The vanishing of Esme Lennox” by Maggie O’farrell, and no offence to Ms O’Farrell, I just am not terribly keen on her writing. There were 3 books in the poetry section. 3!!! ; The collected works of Ted Hughes, Old Possums cat doo dah, and a battered anthology.
Sigh.
Still, I am enjoying the Paula Yates one. Only I have to keep washing my hands with anti bac soap…
Faffery.
On what planet is faffing around for an entire 6 hours and writing only 2 paragraphs of a story which I will delete tomorrow “being a writer.”?
I suck.
Bookshop conversations.
A very snooty woman came over to me and said:
“I just want to know why a bookshop of this size does not stock work of such importance as unpronounceable foreign name.”
I said “Hmmm, let me check that out for you. How do you spell unpronounceable foreign name?”
“Well, I don’t know, surely you should?”
“Do you have a title?”
“No, but she was nominated for that big prize last year.”
“Which one?”
“Oh I don’t know. This is ridiculous.”
Would you believe that I found the book she was after? I triumphantly presented her with it.
“But it’s in hardback.”
“Yes, it was only published recently, and I don’t have a due date for the paperback.”
“I have read it in paperback.”
“Oh!” I check the computer, “There’s no record of it being available in paperback. Sorry.”
“Oh, this is stupid. Of course it’s in paperback, I read it in paperback.”
A man comes to the counter and asks for a book.
“I’m sorry but we don’t keep that title in stock. I could order it for you?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“We do ask for payment in advance.”
“What? WHAT! That’s not good enough. WHAT! You don’t have the book but you want me to pay you for it anyway?”
“Well, we have had to implement the payment in advance rule as so many people ordered books that we wouldn’t usually stock and then didn’t bother to come and buy them. We got stuck with…”
“I can’t believe this. It’s not good enough. How dare you ask me to pay. You can forget it. I won’t buy books here ever again…”
Man exits down the stairs still ranting. The next customer in line gives me a sweet little sympathy smile.
A middle aged man comes over to the counter with his ear clamped to a mobile phone. He hands me a book entitled “Schoolgirl lust.” I scan it, bag it and ask for the money. He says down the phone;
“In a bookshop. Just paying. Yes. Graham Greene.”
Here we go again.
Well I have given my Bridport failed entry a tiny rewrite and submitted it elsewhere. I still think it’s good. Not only that! I have finished my invisible woman story. Yay. And I think I’ll be just in time to meet the deadline as long as I get next day post, and manage to make my temperamental printer work. Whilst my stories are “out” there, then there is hope.
My computer has another virus thing so will have to go back to the repair shop. It’s something I feel very uncomfortable about, seems akin to handing a stranger my diary and photo album. The idea also that someone can see all the odd searches I have made creeps me out too. So I hang on to it despite the fact that I now can’t back anything up, or play any disc, and I have no clue as to how much damage is being done every time I turn on.
On failure.
Well I failed to place anywhere in the Bridport Prize. I feel silly and foolish because I was actually quite optimistic which is most unlike me. I really liked my story, and there was something in the way of positive thinking and all that which made me imagine that I was in with a chance. I was after first place and didn’t even make 13th!
In many ways I am crippled with self doubt and worry that too many people delude themselves into imagining they have a talent. I do not want to be one of them. Yet also when it comes to my writing I can be full of conviction that I am … I don’t know…talented/able to put words together in a usefully descriptive and emotive way. I truly thought that my story was strong and interesting, and good quality.
Not good enough though. Boom, fantasy over. I really am such an idiot. I thought I should write this down and share my embarrassment.
We are really struggling financially as a family, and perhaps I should just try and get extra hours in the bookshop and sell other peoples words rather than sit here grinding out words that are shit.
Customers.
There are two men who regularly come into the bookshop. I feel sure that they are up to some mischief. They have that alcoholic sway thing happening, and they hang out by the art books. One wears an enormous jacket, no matter if it’s hot, the sour stench of him spreads throughout the entire shop floor. They choose maybe 10 books, and then go and sit at the table and chat and look at the books. The jacketed one takes his coat off and spreads it wide so that the table is obscured. They get up and stagger off. They return again and again throughout the day. I try and count the books on the table before and after they leave. I can’t tell if anything is missing. Our art books are security tagged, they never set off the alarms. Our security guard has watched them closely and can’t see that they are doing anything.
Could it be that they are two down on their luck street guys who need a regular fix of art?
Grinding out words.
Gah! Yet more procrastination and faffery on my part as I struggle with my invisible woman story. (She’s not actually invisible.) I know the end, I have written the larger part of it, but to get to the end there is a gap. A gap I have wrestled with for a few days now. Grrr to the gap, bad gap!
Now, rubbishly, I fill the gap with, well, filler. And it shows. Argh. I feel that if I can just complete it and leave it for a week and then return to it, suddenly it will be clear what needs doing as the magic of story writing happens when I don’t look.
So, best grind on then.
Sara Crowley 