The Novel in your Hand

Sun setting, men tending to the early summer barbecue, children playing sweetly together in the vast fields attached to the camp site and the scene is set for a much loved relative and I to have a glass of wine together. I ask about the novel in her hand and she talks enthusiastically about the brilliance of this book, how she doesn't want it to finish and how she’d feel differently about a friend who didn’t enjoy it, such was the impact the book has had on her own life.

I understand this level of passion for a novel. However I’d defy anybody who’s played any part in a book club to feel like this, nothing being less predictable in a group of people than who will like and dislike your chosen story. Our conversation came to a natural close but nonetheless left me with a slight uneasiness and the hope that this relative wouldn’t buy me the book in question. 

Three months later, the book arrived. I bet you’ll love this, she wrote inside. I do hope so, I thought to myself.

To make matters worse, this same relative, whose opinion I do respect, had bought me a novel for a previous birthday which I really didn’t enjoy, despite it being tremendously popular and a film having come from it. I decided to be honest when we discussed it later, although choosing to focus on the parts I liked, or perhaps should say, could bear, rather than those which had me squirming with nausea. Yes, the nostalgic scenes were great, I said, with a fixed smile. I wrestled with myself even back then about not admitting my true feelings about a book. It wasn’t as if my friend had written it, or even that a friend of a friend of hers had written it. But somehow, it just seemed a little ungrateful to talk about not enjoying a present.

So, imagine how I felt when I finally picked up this now infamous book during the Christmas holidays and struggled to get started. Reading under pressure to enjoy something, I’ve discovered, is a little like being asked to ‘walk normally’ as a consultant asked me to do, recently. How hard can it be to put one foot in front of the other? Try it! I nearly fell over, such was my determination to produce an even tread.

I re-started this book three times – each time, thinking that I mustn’t have been in the mood or was too tired to concentrate. On the third, I made a pact with myself. I would treat this book like any other; if it wasn’t working for me by the 100^th page, I would cut my losses and turn to the next in my To Be Read pile which is reminiscent of a publisher’s slush pile of reads from wannabe first-time novelists. 

Besides, hopefully the conversation would never come up.

I saw the book-giver over Christmas and she said how much she’d really enjoyed Glasshopper by Isabel Ashdown which I’d given her for her birthday. She spoke so fondly of the adorable main character, Jake, that I had no doubt her praise was real. I’ve just started yours, I said, the blurb looks great.

It wasn’t going well. By page 30 I was tempted to skim read. For the record, my problem is with the introduction of the main characters and their stories, without enough happening elsewhere. I reminded myself that I felt similarly about Atonement by Ian McEwan up to around 50 pages and that went on to become one of my all-time favourite reads.

This novel was now under about the same amount of pressure to be enjoyable as David Cameron is to sort out the debt crisis. It wasn’t fair to heap so much responsibility on one story, to put it under such close scrutiny.

I started the novel for the fourth time, knowing I had a good unbroken couple of hours ahead of me to ‘get into this book’, such had become the nature of the challenge. There was a flicker, around page 45, when I found a character I thought I might care about but other than that, I’m afraid, at page 114, I gave up for the last time and went to bed.

And that’s where my story ends. I can’t bring myself to pretend I’ve read this book but I also don't relish seeing the disappointment in the relative’s face if I reveal I can't even finish it. What would you do in this situation? And if you’ve been in a similar place before, please do tell us here!

Happy New Year everyone and happy reading, whatever you choose!

Present Peekers

My daughter asked if she could open the Christmas present just given to her by her piano teacher. No, I said, Of course not. Why? she asked. Because it isn’t Christmas yet! (It wasn’t our most profound conversation.) I looked at her with a certain amount of incredulity. Why on earth would you want to open your present in advance? She returned the look with a, Why wouldn’t you?

I like surprises so have absolutely no desire to know what’s under wraps until the special day. I’ve always been like this. I never wanted to be hoisted onto a sister’s shoulders to peep over the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard to uncover next month’s stash of Christmas presents, unlike the other three – eh girls? If I do ever stumble across an unwrapped present, the disappointment can hang around for days. So, unless under extreme pressure to do so –a hand-made present from Auntie Ethel, donated with great excitement only moments before emigrating to The Bermuda Triangle, for example- I never open presents in advance.

There’s a superstitious side of me, too, which ensures the Sellotape remains firmly fixed. It’s like turning the page to the next month on the calendar before you’re actually there. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I understand the logic of turning the page; it’s the night before and it would be much more useful to see what was planned next week rather than what we’ve already done. But this tiny part of me just doesn’t want to tempt fate, to be presumptuous that the powers-that-be will decree that we should reach the next day. And it’s the same for me with presents.

I know people who offer a very polite, yet unprompted, request for their inevitable gift. I’m happy to oblige but it is, nonetheless, a slightly alien concept for me, somehow detracting from the joy of giving and receiving, even though I know it stems from not wanting to waste money which is only to be commended.

So, I’ve decided there are peekers and non-peekers, surprise and non-surprise junkies. Just like there are those who’ll read the final page of a book to decide whether it’s going to be worth reading and those who grimace at the thought of even catching the blurb. I think you can guess where I stand on that one. Are you a present-peeker?Were you a present-peeker? And if you read the last page of a novel before the first, do you also sneak to the tree when nobody’s looking to have a peep through a loosely wrapped corner? Come on, you can tell us!

To all my lovely readers, I haven't written my Christmas cards yet so please feel very honoured to receive my first official Christmas wish. Thanks so much for sharing this blog with me this year, it makes me very happy to know people are reading my scribbles. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and a 2012 full of happy times and publishing deals for those who’d like them.