Like Riding a Bike

I’ve been playing a lot of guitar lately.

Now, that shouldn’t be too much of a revelation. After all, I’ve been a guitarist for more than half my life now; a period in which my instrument has taken me gigging across the country, into studios and on stage with artists of near every kind imaginable—hell, we’ve even played Glastonbury together.

But in recent years, my six-string and I have become somewhat estranged. If you’ve ever visited this blog before, you probably won’t be too surprised to hear just how neatly that decline in my guitar playing correlates to the increase in my struggles with depression and anxiety over the years, and nor should you.

It’s pretty well-established that one of the most visible symptoms of depression is a lack of motivation (or avolition, if you prefer the formal term), which can impact sufferers in a multitude of ways. Sometimes it’s as simple as not having the energy to cook dinner or make the bed; at other times it can be a cause for immediate concern, its effects being so drastic as to make you feel you can’t even move (otherwise known as psychomotor retardation). Make no mistake, this is no synonym for mere idleness: that is an active choice not to do something, but a full episode of depressive avolition is more like finding all of your limbs suddenly deaf to your brain’s instructions.

Indeed, one of the key differences between the two is that whilst general laziness usually centres around a desire to avoid something tedious or unpleasant, depression (being ever the colossal dick) will more often than not target the things you actually enjoy doing.

And so it was for me and my guitar. Pre-breakdown, music was always one of my go-to escapes whenever I was feeling down or unwell; but when the Big D came along I just lost all enthusiasm for it, and even when I could bring myself to pick up an instrument I found all of sudden that playing them gave me none of the pleasure it used to.

And as the days between practices grew into weeks and months, in came the Big D’s cretinous companions—anxiety, self-doubt, inward negativity. Each time I tried to reconnect with music, my illness would be there to remind me what a deficient guitarist I was: “I don’t know how,” it would whisper in the back of my mind, “but you’ve got even worse since last time.” Before long, just the sight of my once-cherished Epiphone Dot was enough to make me feel like a fraud; what used to be a proud reminder of my achievements as a musician now just made me think of all the other, better guitarists who I believed deserved those opportunities more than me. I soon stopped performing live, then stopped writing and recording too, and before I knew it I had all but walked away from music for good.

Ironically, it’s exactly those feelings that have brought me back to my guitar now. Over the last few years I’ve made some huge strides in reasserting control over the Big D, but in all that time I’ve somehow never come to terms with my lost love of music. I guess if I’m being honest, spending so much time away had left me a little afraid of my guitar: if I didn’t think I was any good before, how bad would I be with four years of rust on my muscle memory?

But the difference between then and now is that, having finally seen the Big D for what it is, I know that that fear was just another one of its lies: I might not be the greatest guitarist in the world, but I’m certainly not as bad as I’d let my illness convince me all those years ago. And like any of the Big D’s previous falsehoods, once confronted it unravelled like the sham it really was—if you’ll forgive a little simile it was like finally managing to open a window in a stuffy room, but instead of a breeze coming in it was Meters riffs and Nile Rodgers’ chords, things I’d learnt years before and apparently never forgotten. Everything I thought I couldn’t do is coming back to me at last, and each spare moment I spend with my Epiphone feels like a mini triumph in itself, complete with a shot of “good on ya” dopamine to keep me coming back—it’s no wonder I haven’t been able to put the thing down for over a month now.

And sometimes, that’s what “getting better” is all about. It’s not always known or understood, but the road to overcoming a mental illness often lies in those little victories, those small pieces of land once lost and now recovered that make the end goal that much closer. It’s not always a case of taking big steps forward—sometimes it’s enough just to remember you can still play the guitar.

April in Books: The Lieutenant; The Sellout; The Silk Roads

After spending March in the company of some edgy short stories and classic dystopia, I was really in need of some lighter reading this month. Though in hindsight, I’m not sure whether a story of colonial brutalism, a commentary on race in modern America and a comprehensive history of the entire civilised world could really be considered “light”…


The Lieutenant, Kate GrenvilleWhen I was searching for an Australian author as part of my Booktrotting project, one of the names that so frequently came up was Kate Grenville—in fact, so frequently recommended was she that even though I plumped for Tim Winton in the end, I just couldn’t resist buying one of her novels as well to read on the side.

The Lieutenant may not be as familiar as Grenville’s Man Booker-shortlisted The Secret River, but it is cut from similar historical cloth, travelling back to Australia’s earliest days as a British penal colony. Based on actual events, it’s the story of Daniel Rooke, a British naval lieutenant among the First Fleet sent to establish the New South Wales settlement, and of his and his fellow Europeans’ tense relations with their new aboriginal neighbours.

I can’t say I was particularly swept up by The Lieutenant, but reading it did make me want to go out and find Grenville’s other historical novels. I really enjoyed the subtle way she tackles Britain’s dark colonial legacy, using an almost comic juxtaposition of the British settlers’ military pomp with some superb descriptions of Australia’s wild, natural backdrop, to really drive home just how intrusively out-of-place the colonialists were—if that’s any sign of things to come, I look forward to The Secret River and its sequel, Sarah Thornhill.


The Sellout, Paul BeattyWhen the crime-ridden L.A. suburb of Dickens is removed from the map to save California from embarrassment, one resident takes it upon himself to restore the pride of Dickens’ exclusively black-and-Latino population—his method of choice being to reinstate Jim Crow-era segregation, in the hopes that it unites the community as “apartheid united black South Africa”.

It feels like a pretty weak statement to call this an astonishing novel; after all, winning the 2016 Man Booker Prize should be proof enough that Paul Beatty’s work is something special. But even amongst Man Booker winners, The Sellout is something else. It’s one of those novels that by luck or design so perfectly fits the zeitgeist into which it emerges—taking aim at both so-called post-racial America and the very idea that such an America could even exist, Beatty conducts a satirical masterclass that’s so cut-to-the-bone funny it makes you wish it wasn’t. “This may be hard to believe, coming from a black man,” the opening line reads, “but I’ve never stolen anything.”

Admittedly, its plot isn’t the most compelling, and runs at times into baffling farce; but in the end, the events of The Sellout are hardly as important as what Beatty uses them to illustrate. If this doesn’t enter the roll-call of Great American Novels in the coming years, I will eat my copy in protest.


The Silk Roads, Peter FrankopanPerhaps its the years spent under Hermione Granger’s influence, but whenever I’m in need of a detoxing read, my go-to is almost always a large heft of non-fiction.

Generally speaking, any history book is good enough for me, but The Silk Roads has one hell of a unique selling point. Its scope is enormous—say, every major global event from the rise of Rome to the last days of the Obama administration—and rather than just repeating your old school history lessons, Frankopan swings away from the usual Euro-American perspective and refocuses on the lands of the historic Silk Roads, the trade routes through Asia and the Middle East that were once the centre of the world.

The result is a book as ambitious as it is rewarding, one that presents the historical events we think we know so well from fascinatingly different angles. If there is any one criticism I have of The Silk Roads, it’s that towards the end Frankopan’s lens was pulling noticeably back towards the West; but I think given the intention and the size of the undertaking, that’s easily forgiven.

Solvitur Ambulando: Walking with my Mental Health

Solvitur ambulando: an appeal to practical experience for a solution, Latin, literally “(the problem) is solved by walking”.

Huntspill River

I feel very fortunate to have grown up where I did. Granted, when I was actually doing that growing up I didn’t think much of my stretch of the Somerset coast, what with its murky seawaters, its treacherous sinking mud, its boggy, flooded fields. But now that I’m a little older and (I like to think) a little wiser, I’ve really come to appreciate how privileged I am to have been shaped by what truly is such a beautiful and formidable landscape.

I’ve been exploring that landscape a lot lately. I’ve always been a firm devotee of rambling—when it comes to the great outdoors, I believe that following your nose and getting completely lost is all part of the fun. And so when the springtime brings with it clear skies and warm weather, I can usually be found miles from home, perched on a hillside or following a riverbank deep inland.

River Brue

Now, one of the things I so love about embarking on a good ramble—besides the opportunity for some bitchin’ Facebook cover photos, of course—is the benefits it yields for my mental health.

It’s advice that’s given out so often it’s almost become a self-care cliché, that a little exercise and fresh air can go a long way when it comes to issues like depression and anxiety.

But as generic as it sounds, there is actually a lot of truth to it. Admittedly, I’m not too clued up on the exact reasons why—partly because research on the subject still appears to be relatively scant, and partly because I payed too little attention in school science classes to start understanding biology now. But according to organisations like Mind and the NHS, even the simplest act of exercise is enough to give you a quick shot of endorphins, those feel-good brain chemicals whose name I can only imagine was chosen to conjure images of happy, playful mind-dolphins.

Or, if like me you still need the help of Pixar’s Inside Out to understand the complexities of the human brain, the simpler explanation is that being active, much like Shalamar, can make you feel good. And although walking might not involve Lycra or ball skills, it still counts as exercise, and is still enough to get those endorphins flowing.

Glastonbury Tor

For me, however, the role walking has played in my recovery over the years goes beyond just getting a quick self-esteem boost from a little physical activity.

As a writer, I’ve always found walking to be highly conducive to problem-solving: whenever I feel writer’s block setting in, I always go outside and work through it on my feet. It’s as if by undertaking the physical act of getting from here to there I’m able to trick my brain into making a progression of its own from problem through to solution. In fact, I’m actually writing this very sentence on the move—to borrow the words of Henry David Thoreau, “Methinks the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.”

In time, I came to apply this practice to my mental wellbeing too. If you’ve not suffered from a mental illness before, you might not be aware that part of what makes them so potent is the state of reeling confusion that floods in their wake, as the initial Blitzkrieg assault leaves you with no idea of what the hell is happening to you or where the hell it came from. All of a sudden your emotional spectrum is thrown off balance, your nerves are stretched tight, the earth itself might have moved beneath your feet for all you know—all you can say for certain is that something, somewhere, has gone wrong.

Jennycliff

It was whilst in this state of blindness that walking became invaluable to me. Where some sufferers use exercise as a distraction or to rebuild confidence, I used it to piece together the puzzle my life had become. It was a form of meditation, I suppose, or self-counselling. Just as I did with writer’s block, I would leave the house with a single, simple question in mind, and allow the cadence of my feet and my surroundings to coax some sense out of the uncertainty; the only difference was, instead of exploring some sticky passage or narrative hitch, I’d ask myself “Why do I struggle talking to people now?”, or “Why do I keep having panic attacks in the middle of Tesco?”

Although confronting my newfound vulnerabilities in that way was terrifying at first, by talking them for a walk (so to speak) I was able to explore them in a calm, methodical way, following those daunting questions through to clarity the same way I’d follow my feet to a destination. It enabled me to make sense of what I was going through in a way that counsellors’ advice and medical definitions had never come close to before, and ultimately led me to regaining that feeling of self-control I had lost when my illness began—in other words, walking through my problems allowed me to go from just knowing how to fight fires when they arose, to understanding why they started in the first place and thus how to prevent them in the future.

And so whilst it would be beyond a stretch to say that my beef with the Big D has been completely solved by walking, I certainly feel justified in saying that a large part of my journey back to stability is owed to the introspective power of a good long walk. Solvitur ambulando? Perhaps not yet—but it definitely is helping.

Plymouth Hoe

Disclaimer: although walking, and indeed any exercise, is great for taking a little extra care of your mental wellbeing, that doesn’t necessarily make it a treatment for mental illness by itself. Mental health issues are complex, with as many solutions as there are problems, and exercise is just one of many potential ways of tackling them—for more on that, read this post on Mind.org.

March in Books: 1984; Everything Ravaged; When the Women Come Out to Dance

I didn’t get an awful lot read in February, what with working through Eleanor Catton’s mammoth The Luminaries for my Booktrotting project. But this month I’ve been back on it—and apparently jumping back in at the very deep end, with my reading list taking a sharp right turn into some very bleak waters. So bleak, in fact, that I had to take these books out into the spring sunshine to make up for it…

1984, George OrwellYes, I know, who isn’t reading George Orwell at the moment? But 1984 has been loitering on my bookcase for a long, long time now, and I figured jumping on the social commentary bandwagon was as good a way as any of finally ticking this off the “must-read” list.

Although now that I’ve finally got round to it, I must admit I found 1984 to be a little…dry. As a concept and a socio-political essay the ideas it conveys are really something else, but as a novel I found its many discourses too distracting and its plot too pedestrian to get into. Perhaps one day I’ll return to 1984 and discover what it is I’ve missed this first time around—but for now, I think I’ll hand my copy on to someone who’ll enjoy it more.


Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned, Wells Tower

Continuing on with the air of desolate gloom established by 1984, this debut collection of short stories by Wells Tower read about as lightly as its title suggests. It’s a heavy brew of divorce, poverty, child abuse and more, acted out by a cast of invariably wretched characters and to a soundtrack of bitter fatalism—looking back, Everything Ravaged seems to be a pretty apt description for how I felt come the end.

But it’s also an exceptionally well-crafted set of stories. Whilst the raw subject matter might not be “enjoyable” in the typical sense of the word, the way in which Tower presents it is certainly easy to admire—particularly his hallmark oily black humour, which lingers at the end of each story like the afterburn of vomiting up bad whisky. If you like your literature grim and sardonic (like Ottessa Moshfegh’s Eileen, for example) you could do worse than checking out Wells Tower.


When the Women Come Out to Dance, Elmore Leonard

On the face of it, this set of two novellas and seven short stories by the venerable Elmore Leonard doesn’t quite fit tonally in a lineup with 1984 and Everything Ravaged. Where Wells Tower dived into his seedy and debased world right from the start, Leonard begins softly, with human interest stories of infirmity and lost glory days.

But from that foundation, Leonard builds When the Women into an arguably much more penetrating portrait of modern America than Tower is able to. It feels eerily natural when the restless malcontent of the opening stories slides into the tales of violence and racial tension that fill the second half. Read in 2017, that transition becomes a striking image of the path down which American disaffection is so easily led—made all the more poignant by Leonard’s tone, which handles the worst of his characters not with grit or twisted humour, but with a powerless frustration, a resignation that things are what they are and will continue to be. Sure, it might be easy these days to reach for the Orwells, Atwoods and Huxleys, but don’t overlook Elmore Leonard if you want your reading with a side of social relevance.

The Clown and the Crook: Finding Trump in Shakespeare’s Othello

It’s hard not to see reflections of Donald Trump in art these days. Take the sudden climb up the bestseller lists for George Orwell and other dystopian authors, or the obvious comparisons between Trump and fellow dark lord Voldemort—even his White House screening of Finding Dory couldn’t pass without irony. For a man whose presidential campaign was as steeped in narcissism as it was devoid of morality, such ubiquity in popular culture must be a dream come true.

It’s perhaps not surprising, then, that I saw Trump again on the weekend, in a production of Othello by the Shakespeare arm of Bristol’s Tobacco Factory. He came of course in the form of the play’s antagonist, Iago, whose plot to destroy the eponymous Moor by tearing down his marriage to Desdemona makes him one of Shakespeare’s most malevolent villains.

The surface comparisons between Trump and Iago are easy to see: his blatant lies about Desdemona’s adultery, for example; or how he promises to return to Roderigo, a white Venetian, the wife he feels Othello, a black immigrant, has stolen from him. Like Game of Thrones‘ Littlefinger, he moves from character to character pretending to offer help, all the while manipulating them for his own ends instead. But what made this particular iteration so resonant was STF’s Mark Lockyer, whose portrayal of Iago, whether by design or coincidence, took those parallels to the current President to a much greater depth.

Mark Lockyer as Iago. Photo by Camilla Adams, via The Tobacco Factory.
Mark Lockyer as Iago. Photo by Camilla Adams, via The Tobacco Factory.

Lockyer’s character was full of charisma. Instead of his default portrayal as a two-faced conniver, Iago became something of an enigmatic anti-hero, drawing laughter and camaraderie from the audience as he divulged his schemes. Given his role in the play, the rapport he was able to create was downright sinister. His attacks on Othello’s marriage and mental state were received almost like the blows of a plucky, underdog gladiator—seated as we were in tiers surrounding the Tobacco Factory’s central stage, it was certainly difficult to suppress the feeling of being in a Roman arena, lapping up the bloody spectacle on the sands below.

Perhaps it would have been easier to see Iago for what he was, had his scenes not been lit invariably by a ring of hard white strip lights around the stage. Under their relentless glare, his intrigues were thrown into such a nauseating clarity that they seemed dreamlike, a little fuzzy at the edges, and that unreality gave Iago free rein to distort himself as necessary. To Roderigo he was the ever-helpful ally; to Othello and Cassio, he was crude but innocuous. On the rare occasion he let his guard slip and another character caught sight of his true self (as Desdemona does in Act Two), their criticisms are waved away—that’s just Honest Iago, they’re reminded, he’s only saying what we all wish we could.

Only to the audience is the full picture of Iago’s malice usually revealed, though on this occasion Lockyer does his very best to hide it even from them. He riffs on the dramatic irony of his character’s multiple false faces, using it to paint him with the broad, clownish strokes of many of Shakespeare’s other antagonists; in return for his seemingly humble self-awareness, Iago is allowed the confidence of those who should have all they need to condemn him. His soliloquies are punctuated with a set of all-too-familiar hand gestures—even the “Trump Pump” handshake makes an appearance—and Lockyer exaggerates his delivery until what Iago actually says gets lost beneath how he says it.

Only at the very end, as the stage lights illuminate the play’s bloody climax, does the audience realise that it too has been duped—that the buffoonery it thought was so genuine was just another layer of deception. In the tense quiet that hung about the final scene, it was hard to tell if the onlookers were more stunned by the full extent of Iago’s grand plan, or by his success in convincing them that he could never truly pull it off.

Photo by Gage Skidmore, via Wikimedia Commons.

It may well be that the resemblance I saw between Trump and Iago was nothing more than the influence of the times. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but compare the shock of Iago’s unmasking with that of Trump’s presidential election victory.

Like Iago, Trump’s changing faces had enabled him to pull off the impossible: he rose to prominence in a Republican party convinced that he was harmless; he won the support of millions convinced he was on his side; and, perhaps most importantly, he basked in the apathy of rivals convinced he was a candidate too ludicrous to oppose.

I can’t speak for those around me in the audience, but the Iago I saw in Bristol put me in mind of this piece by journalist Ron Rosenbaum. In comparing Donald Trump’s campaign trail image to that of Adolf Hitler in the 1920s, Rosenbaum says: “Hitler used the tactics of bluff masterfully, at times giving the impression of being a feckless Chaplinesque clown, at others a sleeping serpent, at others a trustworthy statesman.”

It was those same tactics of bluff that allowed Lockyer’s Iago to keep the danger he posed hidden from the rest of Othello‘s characters, just as they allowed the true potency of Donald Trump’s campaign to go unnoticed beneath the mockery of his legitimacy as a candidate. In laughing at the jester the audience was played for a fool—all that remains to be seen is whether that laughter will stop now the clown paint has been removed.

January in Books: His Bloody Project; The Essex Serpent; Voyage of the Basilisk

Ah, January—the month of new beginnings and fresh book goals. As well as starting a new Booktrotting chapter in Oceania, this month’s reading has been mostly about making a dent in my stack of literary Christmas presents, starting with bloody murder in the Scottish highlands, and a double helping of sea-serpents…


His Bloody Project, Graeme Macrae Burnet

A surprise and an underdog it may have been, but there’s no denying His Bloody Project deserved its place on the 2016 Man Booker shortlist. Billed by the blurb as a simple historical fiction about a murder and its following trial, what sets this novel apart is Burnet’s unique choice of form. Presenting the story as true from the outset, he tells it not via the usual prose but with a collection of “found” witness statements, court documents and the memoir of the accused—think The Blair Witch Project meets Law & Order: Scottish Victims Unit.

But whilst that certainly made for an interesting concept, I’m still not entirely sure it resulted in the best read. It just felt a little too choppy to get into: the section comprising murderer Roddy’s memoir was a classic piece of historical fiction, compelling as it mounted to its bloody climax and so vibrantly real in its portrayal of Victorian Highland life; but for all its strengths, that part felt too short, and the medical reports and trial coverage far too long. For now, I’m still in two minds about His Bloody Project, though perhaps in time I’ll appreciate it better.


The Essex Serpent, Sarah Perry

But if I’m still unsure about His Bloody Project, I couldn’t be any more certain by comparison about The Essex Serpent. In the wake of the death of her abusive husband, the intrepid Cora Seabourne leaves behind the pity and mourning of London and rents a house in the tiny Essex parish of Aldwinter. Indulging her love of palaeontology amongst the fossil-rich clay of the Blackwater estuary, Cora’s dream of emulating Mary Anning soars when she learns that Aldwinter is haunted by a primordial sea-serpent…

I don’t think it would be too much to say that I really and truly fell for The Essex Serpent. The promise of a foggy riverbank and accompanying Gothic beastie would probably have been enough on its own to make this a good novel, but what makes it great is how Perry lets it swell to a level of complexity far beyond the mere terror of the Serpent. More than anything The Essex Serpent is a story about human relationships, about the different forms of love binding Cora’s circle of mismatched friends together; it’s also the story of England facing great change, as society’s old certainties are tested by feminism, socialism, science and reason, and people’s fears of this new age take shape as a serpent in the mist.

With everything The Essex Serpent sets out to be, it’s no wonder it’s won Sarah Perry so much praise over the last year—and that’s without even mentioning the beauty of Perry’s writing itself, and the way her voice flourishes into passages so sublime I couldn’t help but read them twice. It is simply an astounding novel, and I couldn’t recommend it enough.


Voyage of the Basilisk, Marie Brennan

And speaking of sea serpents, after finishing The Essex Serpent there really was no other way to follow it up than by setting off with Marie Brennan’s Isabella Camherst, dragon naturalist and the Indiana Jones of fantastic palaeontology—the spirit of Mary Anning would have it no other way.

Voyage of the Basilisk, the third instalment in Brennan’s Memoirs of Lady Trent series (of which part five is out this April), sees Isabella embark on a two-year voyage aboard the RSS Basilisk, searching for sea-serpents in the far-flung oceans of the world. It’s this use of location that is one of this series’ main strengths: although the content of each volume is more or less the same—dragons are sought, shenanigans ensue, discoveries are made—Brennan uses her knack for worldbuilding to set each novel in an environment that not only keeps the story feeling fresh, but is also completely tangible, with whole languages and cultures that seem fully at home in the worlds they inhabit. From frigid mountains to swamps and savannahs, and now to the seas of Yelang and Dajin, these books are an armchair explorer’s dream.

However, it must be said that whilst the locations of Voyage of the Basilisk were as good as ever, the pacing of the book itself was a little off compared to its predecessors. It’s hardly surprising, given the task of condensing two years at sea into just 365 pages, but with so many time cuts it all felt too episodic to really flow as one narrative—nevertheless, with the scenery rolling ever by, and to the sound of Isabella’s whip-cracking wit, this still proved to be a highly enjoyable slice of escapism.

New Year’s Reading List

New year, new books: now there’s a resolution I can get behind. In my opinion, there’s no finer way to kick-start the year than by getting your teeth into a new book, whether that means taking a chance on an author you’ve never heard of or knocking a few of those Christmas gifts and holiday sale bargains off the to-be-read shelf.

With all the new beginnings in the air, I also like to spend some time on the approach to spring tackling some of those books I feel I should have read already, the Steinbeck and the Nabokov and the D. H. Lawrence—those books I buy from charity shops because they look all literary, but somehow never get round to reading at the time. Last year it was the time for To the Lighthouse and Fahrenheit 451, but I think with the way things are looking for the foreseeable future, it might be a good idea to make my reading list a little more dystopian this year…


The Sellout, Paul Beatty

Last year it took me pretty much forever to get round to reading the 2015 Man Booker winner, A Brief History of Seven Killings, so this year I’m determined not to be so sluggish with Paul Beatty’s 2016 winner The Sellout. Yes, that does mean giving it quite the bump to the top of my 80-strong to-read list—but given its satirical look at race relations in the US, and with many Americans currently re-evaluating whether racism is really as bad as everyone says (yeah, it really is), there doesn’t seem to be any more fitting time than the present to make myself acquainted with The Sellout.


img_3230His Bloody Project, Graeme Macrae Burnet

Another to-be-read from last year’s Man Booker shortlist, with all the praise Graeme Macrae Burnet’s fictional murder case study has garnered I could hardly say no to giving it a spin—not to mention my love of all things Scottish wouldn’t let me pass it up if I tried.


img_32351984, George Orwell

1984 is one of those books mentioned above that caught my eye in a second-hand shop, but once brought home was consigned to wait patiently at the tail end of my to-be-reads. But, as with The Sellout, the zeitgeist is pointing me towards Orwell’s Big Brother classic; after all, we probably haven’t got much time before 1984 stops being fiction and becomes enshrined as legitimate prophecy.


img_3234The Essex Serpent, Sarah Perry

One of the many books to arrive mysteriously in my stocking on Christmas morning, I fell in love with The Essex Serpent‘s thistly cover and dreamlike prologue so quickly I actually started reading it the minute I unwrapped it. Now two weeks and 150 pages in, this already looks like a pretty solid nominee for my book of the year.


img_3237Stone of Farewell, Tad Williams

I read the first volume of Tad Williams’ Memory, Sorrow and Thorn series, The Dragonbone Chair, back at the end of last summer, and after taking a few detours through Middle-Earth and Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn, I feel it’s about time I got back to Williams’ sword-and-sorcery epics. I’m hoping the series does something to pick up in Stone of Farewell: The Dragonbone Chair was plenty enjoyable but got a bit stale towards the end, and it’ll be a shame if Stone does nothing more than pick up where Chair fizzled out.