Tories hate the mentally ill

Apparently it’s World Mental Health Day today. Woo! Phaaaaaaa. (That was the sound of one of those party blower things.) Ceeee-le-brate good times, come on! Dun dun dun dun, dun, dun dun duuun!

People – and for once I’ll include myself in that category – sometimes use dates like this as convenient little nudges to write about our own experiences and assure each other that we’re not alone and that the support is there for those who need it. Being immersed in such positive vibes, it becomes easy to think that mental health is that rare issue on which everyone agrees; for once, we are all pulling in the same direction and making progress. Aside from a few traitorous chemicals in our own brains, there are no villains here.

But the fact is, there are villains in this story, some of them so clear-cut and cartoonish that they could have sprung from the pages of a Dickens novel. In the UK, at least, these villains call themselves the Conservative Party.

Yes, I’m getting political. Sorry. I’ve never really believed in the divide some people seem to perceive between politics and the real world. If there is a divide at all, it is so narrow that politicians can easily hop across it and start ruining the real lives of real people whenever the fancy takes them. So while it may be bad manners to talk politics over dinner, sometimes it becomes necessary, particularly if the DWP are in the process of repossessing your dinner table, smashing your crockery and eating your baked potato.

For those lucky enough not to know, the DWP (Department of Work and Pensions) is in charge of the UK’s benefits system, a labyrinth of perma-busy phone lines, endless forms and intimidating face-to-face “assessments” which people who are struggling to find work, for whatever reason, must navigate to have a chance at receiving financial support from the government. The current system is partially a holdover from the previous Labour administration, but was made significantly harsher when the Tories took it over in 2010, citing the desire to stamp out what they perceived as an “institutionalised idleness” in the benefit-claiming population. When you hear about benefits in the UK, you’re usually hearing about all the people who claim them fraudulently – “scroungers”, you might hear them called – and you’re being encouraged to hate them because while you’re out sweating at work doing whatever it is you do (which I’m sure is downright essential to the smooth running of civilisation), they’re at home laughing at you and doing drugs and generally living it up on their cushy allowance of somewhere around £73 per week (the standard rate of ESA – Employment and Support Allowance). And probably being foreign too, while they’re at it.

On occasion scandalous figures are provided to back this up – benefit fraud costs taxpayers over a billion pounds per year! But this is fairly meaningless unless put into some sort of context – this study, for example, shows that benefit fraud accounts for a little over 1% of total benefit claims, while this one shows that it accounts for around 2% of the overall amount lost to fraud in the UK annually, paling in comparison to, for example, corporate tax evasion. In addition, I would be surprised if the amount lost to benefit fraud were anywhere near the amount that ought to have been paid to people whose benefits the DWP have unfairly stopped, or who haven’t been able to face the stress of the system even to claim benefits they are technically entitled to. The horror stories are enough to put anyone off – particularly, I would suggest, the sorts of vulnerable people who might be among those most in need of the exact support that lies at the centre of the nightmarish labyrinth.

In recent years, the UK’s face-to-face benefit assessments in particular have developed a reputation for being unfair and stressful to the point of being inhumane. The United Nations has put together several reports attacking the UK government for, among other things, “totally neglecting the vulnerable situation people with disabilities find themselves in” and describing its various cuts to support for disabled people (justified by the government as part of their necessary austerity package to help the UK economy) as “a human catastrophe”. In recent years, vulnerable people with mental health issues and other disabilities have been forced into poverty and even driven to suicide. (And please, if you’re going to follow one link from this blog post, make it that last one.)

Clumsy attempts have been made to distinguish people with mental health conditions from those with “real” disabilities, though these have generally been met with justified contempt by charities and campaigners. In what appeared to be an ill-considered attempt to divide and rule, a Tory MP said in a 2017 interview that he found it “bizarre” that they were giving financial support to people with conditions such as anxiety, and that they should instead be focusing on “the really disabled people who need it”. His subsequent apology was welcome, but would mean a lot more if he and his party weren’t continuing to run the DWP as though the legitimacy and debilitating effects of mental health conditions like anxiety and depression were somehow still in doubt.

The DWP’s complete disregard for both accepted medical opinion and the lived experiences of people with mental illness is demonstrated quite plainly in their 2016 changes to the wording of PIP (Personal Independence Payment) assessments. PIP is intended to provide disabled people with extra money for their everyday support needs, using a points-based system to assess the amount of financial aid (if any) a person will be granted. However, in a question about the subject’s ability to make journeys on their own, a significant caveat was added. Several lines such as “Cannot follow the route of an unfamiliar journey without another person, assistance dog or orientation aid” were amended with the phrase “for reasons other than psychological distress”, essentially disqualifying many mental health problems such as anxiety and depression from being recognised as valid or significant factors in people’s ability to function.

This change was later overturned in a High Court ruling which called it “blatantly discriminatory”, but it still serves as a fairly unambiguous demonstration of the true mindset of the people in charge of the UK benefits system, a mindset that casts people suffering “psychological distress” either as fakers or as the sort of people who hopefully won’t have the strength to complain too much if we kick them while they’re down. If you ever hear a Conservative say they’re treating mental health with the same seriousness as physical health, that one little change to PIP should be all the reason you need to disbelieve them.

My own experiences with the benefits system are entirely in line with the above, but I won’t go into too much depth about them here. I’m lucky enough to have financial support from my family, and so despite having my benefits stopped for dubious reasons only a few months after my doctor suggested I apply for them, I am in no imminent danger of starving or becoming homeless. If I do need help, there are many thousands of other people in the UK right now whose need is greater. That is the reason I don’t feel too self-serving writing this post. Sadly it’s often harder to stand up for your own rights than someone else’s, and infinitely more so if you have the sort of bastard brain that frequently informs you you’re a non-person who doesn’t deserve the same respect, opportunities or happiness as other people. But the idea of people in worse situations than me, and without the support network I’m lucky enough to have, having to fight their way through layers of hostile and dehumanising bureaucracy only to be denied the most basic degree of financial support? I have no hesitation in saying loud and clear that that’s unconscionable, and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees.

The benefits system is of course just one aspect of the UK’s flawed but still vitally important support network for people with mental health problems, and there are many more ways in which the Tories are fumbling their responsibilities to vulnerable people that I could get into here, but this post is long enough already, and I don’t want to diverge too far from things I have personal experience of, in case I get them horribly wrong.

Finally, a wee bit of a nudge from me to you, because the point of this post is certainly not to put people off claiming benefits. If you need benefits, apply for them. If you need help to do so, look for it – if you don’t have family or friends who are good at that sort of stuff, rest assured there are still wonderful people out there, including charities which can help you through the process. If your case is rejected, appeal. (I didn’t, and given the sheer volume of decisions I’ve learned are overturned on appeal, I’ve been regretting it ever since.) The DWP, whatever cuddly words they say, will try to stop you and put you off at every turn, but if you let them, they win.

Most of all, if you care the slightest bit about mental health, don’t vote Conservative.


On being a writer, or not

I’ve been writing all my life, but it was only a few years ago, when I self-published The War of Undoing, prompting literally ones of pounds to roll into my bank account, that I began to feel okay about calling myself a writer. In a small way, I suppose, I saw this label as a reward for all the years I’d poured into that book, for having finally got it into a state where I could sell it (albeit at a permanent £1.99 price point) without feeling as if I was ripping people off.

But the truth is, I’m still not sure I’m cut out to be a writer. I’m even less sure now that my novel has actually received a bit of exposure and even some kind words. I always told myself that if that happened I’d suddenly feel motivated to get back on track and catch up with all the writing I’ve been finding excuses to avoid since publishing TWOU. And certainly, it does give me flashes of excitement; getting through to the final of SPFBO 2017 was a thrill, and I’m hugely grateful to all the reviewers, even if they didn’t like the book, for at least giving it a chance and taking it seriously enough to read it and write thoughtful responses. It really does mean a lot.

But honestly, flashes of excitement aren’t enough to keep me going right now. Writing books is a marathon, not a sprint – it’s an all-consuming process that requires me to remain motivated for long stretches of time. That just isn’t happening right now. It hasn’t happened in several years. And I’ve begun to question whether it will ever happen again. Perhaps even more significantly, and for the first time in my life, I’m questioning whether I actually need it to.

The reasons behind this are a long story, but here’s a short version. If you know anything about me personally then you probably know that I suffer from fairly severe social anxiety, as well as some more general anxieties and a murky dollop of depression. Over the last couple of years I’ve been fighting this with rather more success than I’ve had in the past. Medication is filing the nastiest edges off the depression, and some very lovely people have helped me get out into the world more, including volunteering in a charity shop, which is challenging my anxiety if not actually curing it. Now there’s a possibility on the horizon, just the faint glimmer of a possibility that I might, in the not too distant future, be able to get into paid employment. You have no idea how impossible this seemed to me even a year ago. Now it’s something I’m almost excited about. Scared? Yes. Hopeful? Well… kinda, actually, yeah.

So, given that I seem to be making progress in other areas of my life, should I continue piling all this pressure on myself to go through the motions of being a “writer”: to keep coming up with ideas I have no faith in, churning out words that never seem to flow, trying to convince myself I’m good enough and that I still have things to say that are worth saying? I used to love writing, but it’s turned into another stick for my mind to beat me with. If I’m going to keep writing, I want to make it my own space again, my place to play and reflect and make as much or as little noise as I want, without the phrase “target demographic” ever entering my head. Maybe that means it’ll always be just a hobby for me, never a career. But that’s fine. Maybe that’s all it should be.

I’ve ranted about this before, but it’s a rant worth returning to: one of the most harmful but pervasive beliefs in our society (and there are quite a few to choose from) is the belief that creativity is not for everyone. It’s this belief that’s at the rotten heart of shows like The X-Factor, whose primary mission is to convince people who derive untold joy from singing that they absolutely must stop making that godawful racket, because they just don’t sound enough like the few dozen megastars who have been appointed to sing on behalf of our society so the rest of us don’t have to. We shame people for something that, throughout history, has been an inclusive, communal, fundamental human activity with the power to bring people together and make them happy.

My point is not that we shouldn’t have pop stars or bestselling authors, but that creativity is enriching even if you never show the results to anyone, or only share them with your closest friends or family. Creativity can be deeply personal, life affirming, a way to get to know yourself, a thing to share with the people you love, a salve to help heal wounds and process complex thoughts and emotions. For some, sure, it’s a career, a skill set to be honed based on critical feedback so that it can appeal to a wider audience. But this does not have to be the way for everyone who creates. You can create for just one or two people, or for yourself. That’s what I used to do, and that’s what I’m going back to now – or whenever I feel like going back.

So, at least for the foreseeable future, I’m not going to call myself a writer any more (except in the name of this website, which is already annoying me but it’s too much faff to get a new domain). Maybe I’ll change my mind tomorrow and resume my quest to write another novel that doesn’t fill me with shame. Maybe I’ll keep writing for my own amusement and never share it with anyone else. Maybe I’ll pack it all in and do something entirely different. I dunno. I’ll probably still post random crap on Twitter sometimes, so if you do want to follow whatever, if anything, is next for me, that’s probably the place to do it.

One last thing: I’ve uploaded the full ebook and PDF of The War of Undoing to this website. You can now download the whole thing for free, indefinitely, if you’re interested. It’s still on sale on Amazon and a few other online stores, but think of that like a tip jar so you can throw me a couple of pounds if you enjoy it. I can’t promise you will, so no pressure to pay. Personally I’m still very proud of it, even with all its faults, and some day I would love to be able to write something else that comes as much from the heart as that book did.

For now, thanks for reading, and I’ll see you around.

Reading: La Belle Assassin’s Railroad 1322


Assassin’s Apprentice by Robin Hobb

Pure, delicious, sit-back-and-let-it-consume-you fantasy. Not exactly the action-packed quest I went in expecting, but a leisurely-paced tale set mostly in and around Buckkeep, the home of the royal family of the Six Duchies, with all the intrigue and tensions you’d hope for from such a setting – along with an almost ludicrous quantity of dogs. Our mild-mannered protagonist FitzChivalry has many sides: half royal, half not, raised as a stable-boy, now a controversial figure in the royal court, now secretly training to be an assassin, and all while trying to rein in his Wit, a telepathic connection he feels with animals which his lovably gruff guardian Burrich insists is Against the Natural Order of Things. Some of the early chapters rang a little more innocent and wholesome than the fare my cynical adult brain is used to, but either I adjusted to this or it got darker and twistier as it went along. Either way, by the middle I’d resigned myself to picking up the entirety of Robin Hobb’s catalogue in future, so I suspect all of it was doing important work somewhere in the back rooms of my brain.


Royal Assassin by Robin Hobb

If you read and liked Assassin’s Apprentice, I’d be rather confused if you didn’t like this at least as much. Again things move slowly, but it is a purposeful kind of slow, the methodical construction of a grand story by a writer who knows exactly what she’s doing. And again, Fitz spends much of the book just to-ing and fro-ing at Buckkeep, making friends, getting into trouble, losing friends, patching up his mistakes as best he can, regaining friends, uncovering treacheries, making enemies and generally spinning plates to try to balance his many disparate responsibilities, as some of them come into painful conflict with each other. As in Rowling or Rothfuss, we feel each of the protagonist’s triumphs as a triumph of our own, each of his failings as a sinking in our stomachs. This, to me, is what’s somewhat lacking in the more relentlessly grimdark fantasy of nowadays. It’s all very well constantly slaughtering characters in gruesome ways, but if you don’t establish them as people worth caring about, how much impact does that really have? It’s not all subtle character moments though; towards the end of this volume, things get so intense that your well-intentioned plans to take a break and read something else before starting the third book may go a-circlin’ right down the toilet. Mine did, anyway.


Assassin’s Quest by Robin Hobb

A bit of a departure from the previous two books – if you’ve finished book two you’ll have some idea why. Suffice it to say, there’s a lot more travelling in this one, taking us far away from familiar faces and into uncharted territory. It’s refreshing, though a childish part of me (the part that desperately yearned for Hogwarts throughout Deathly Hallows) just wanted Fitz to get back to Buckkeep and for everything to be the way it was. This yearning probably aligned my own feelings quite closely with Fitz’s, so maybe Robin Hobb planned it that way. Again, as I’m drawn deeper into her world, it’s hard not to suspect that she plans her readers’ every blink, since she clearly understands storytelling on a level beyond our lowly three-dimensional plane. Okay, I did put this book down for a while in the middle, as I was slowing down and needed to read other things – but she probably planned for that too, as when I came back I was all the way back into the adventure within pages. As a conclusion to the trilogy Assassin’s Quest delivers both epic moments and a few good twisting knives to the gut, but on another level all three books still feel somewhat like an introduction to Hobb’s world. Well, I’m perfectly fine with that. I have a feeling I’ll be staying here a while.

Reservoir 13 by Jon McGregor

A girl goes missing from a small English town, and if you think you already know what kind of book this is, you’re wrong. Reservoir 13 is written in an unusual style – the whole thing reads like the parts of other books that are designed to convey the passage of time in between key scenes. For the first ten or so pages I was patiently waiting for one of these key scenes to kick in – for our lead characters to make themselves known, start using direct dialogue, give us a sense of what the central driving force of the plot is going to be. But no. Instead things just keep happening – seasons change, years change, people change, kids grow up, sheep graze, harvests are reaped – and all related in a voice that I might describe, if I were feeling less kind, as like the minutes of a community council meeting. I’ll say this though: having been made to question it, I do find it hard to make the case that building a traditional genre story around the tragic disappearance of a child ISN’T just a little bit icky. If that revelation was what the book was trying to provoke, mission accomplished. But that might not be what it was going for at all. It’s kinda hard to tell, to be honest.

The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

This lightly Gaiman-esque tale combines a rather harrowing depiction of slavery in the southern United States with a single element of fantasy: the titular underground railroad, which existed in reality as a covert anti-slavery movement, is here given a more literal existence as a network of tunnels and trains. The literalisation of this metaphor occasionally makes you forget that many of the more horrific events portrayed in this story actually happened, meaning that this realisation keeps creeping up on you throughout the book, coming as a fresh shock each time. It also gives the impression that some cosmic force – not just other decent human beings – is looking out for the oppressed. This makes parts of The Underground Railroad feel like a kind of escapism; I was never quite sure whether I was supposed to be reading it that way or as a hard-hitting portrait of slavery. Perhaps this is a tension inherent in all fantasy, but it felt more jarring than usual here. Not that jarring is a bad thing – as far as I’m concerned, if that’s what it takes to break our minds out of society’s prescribed ways of thinking about difficult subjects, jar away. Even if one ignorant white guy like me doesn’t appreciate all the subtleties, someone more important surely will.

La Belle Sauvage by Philip Pullman

I went into this worried that, as many prequels tend to do, this book would rely much too heavily on references to and nostalgia for the original series. And while the slow-moving first half of La Belle Sauvage could perhaps be accused of that, the second half very much feels like its own thing – a surreal journey blending fairytale and Bible story. The protagonists are likeable enough, if sometimes a little similar to those from His Dark Materials, but the show is stolen by the villain Gerard Bonneville, whose brilliantly creepy characterisation carries much of the book. Like Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, this book also undermines some of the cosiness and security readers might associate with the original series; as Cursed Child made me think “oh yeah, even if I went to Hogwarts I might still have been a social outcast”, this one made me think “oh yeah, even if I had a daemon we might not get along with each other”. Plus at points it strips away the metaphors employed in HDM to lay bare some very ugly themes, which feels in keeping with the uncomfortable but largely positive cultural shifts of our times. An interesting and striking return to Lyra’s world, but doesn’t feel essential in quite the same way His Dark Materials did. Not yet, anyway.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver

The very deliberately worded title of this short story collection suggests that love is not something that can be neatly summed up by a paragraph in a dictionary, but a complex cultural idea defined by all the contexts in which humans use it. It made me read this book as an attempt to define love, based on what it means to different people, and if the stories here do genuinely define love, it’s certainly not all roses and romance – it’s awkward conversations and awkward sex and awkward breakups and awkward Christmas reunions – and things even worse than awkwardness, if you can imagine. I found these stories were best enjoyed as ambiguous snapshots of scenes, like old out-of-context photographs. The title story and ‘The Bath’ are two that stick in my mind, but even they are of the variety to which my immediate response is “wait, is that the end?”, and of which I find myself having to piece together the possible meanings afterwards, with mixed success. My old university side must be getting rusty, as I’ve found it hard to know what to take away from many of the more literary works I’ve read lately. From this one, I can only draw the rather obvious conclusion that love is the hardest thing in the world aside from not having any.

The Book of the Year by No Such Thing as a Fish

A book filled with strange and interesting facts about the year 2017, compiled by the same four cheeky folk who produce the consistently entertaining podcast No Such Thing as a Fish. I suspect the normal version of the book would be fun to flick through on a rainy day, but if you like the podcast I’d highly recommend the audio version, which is quite unique in that it features little audio-exclusive tangents as the four frequently chip in with the sort of witty comments that will be familiar to their fans. And if you haven’t heard No Such Thing as a Fish, I would strongly recommend checking it out. I know, it’s one of those things that sounds like it’ll be funny in a sort of cosy low-key BBC afternoon radio have-a-little-intellectual-chuckle-to-yourself-over-tea-and-custard-creams way, but thanks to the chemistry between the incredibly clever and funny hosts, it is often genuinely laugh-out-loud-on-the-bus hilarious.


Maus by Art Spiegelman

A bold attempt to capture the horrors of the Holocaust in graphic novel form. I’m sure much ink has been spilled debating whether this is appropriate, but to me this debate is not only a waste of time, but borderline offensive considering the depth and breadth of comics as an art form and the extent to which they were pioneered by Jewish artists. Also controversial was (and still is, based on the fiery debates at my book club) Spiegelman’s use of animals to depict various races of people, though how anyone can get through this book thinking this isn’t a deliberate choice to highlight the cartoonish absurdity of racial stereotyping is a mystery to me. The structure is also worthy of note, as it erases the line between fiction and non-fiction: we flash back and forth between a relatively benign present in which Spiegelman himself quizzes his understandably cranky father about his Holocaust experiences, and the up-close-and-personal story of his father’s journey, rife with betrayal, despair and an almost unbearable sense of oppression. Maus is a great book and an essential read, especially in these troubling times. If we refuse to learn from the stories contained here, what possible hope is there for humanity?

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

If ever there was a classic piece of literature that feels as though it’s trolling you, it’s Catch-22. In Alex terms, it’s somewhere at the intersection of Kurt Vonnegut, Samuel Beckett and… um… Blackadder Goes Forth? Hear me out: it’s darkly absurd, stuffed with silly jokes and contradictions and paradoxes and phrases being repeated until they lose all meaning; there’s even a character named Major Major Major Major who regularly climbs out the window of his office to avoid meeting people. Frankly, it’s ridiculous. And long. And in places infuriating, especially if you aren’t on board with its particular style of wasting your time. But it’s also a classic for a reason – it’s a stunningly bold and unique portrayal of war, not as glorious, or even as unfortunate but necessary, but as absolutely, upside-down-and-back-to-front-ly, mind-twistingly awful. It took me a long old time to get into this book, and I still have some issues with its portrayal of the female characters – surely Heller could have turned a bit more of his indomitable sardonic wit on the absurdity of the gender relations portrayed here? But overall, this is an important work and one that deserves to be read and studied for a long time. Plus, of course, the titular phrase is a contribution to the language of dystopia worthy of Orwell himself.

Bad days, social media and posting from the pit

I realise I only seem to post three things on this blog these days:

1) Nothing
2) Book reviews
3) Long-winded updates on the state of my own mental health

I will genuinely try to change that in the near future. There’s some quite exciting stuff going on with The War of Undoing and SPFBO 2017 which I haven’t even talked about here yet because I’m rubbish. I should also have another batch of book reviews up soon, when I finally finish up Robin Hobb’s delightful Farseer Trilogy. But for now all you’re getting is a classic example of the third thing on that list. Sorry!

So… I just had a bad day. It’s not in my top ten worst days ever – probably not even in my top hundred – but it’s one of the worst days I’ve had since starting my medication just over a year ago. (As mentioned in my posts from back then, I’m taking fluoxetine, which for me has generally been a godsend.)

Yesterday was the sort of day that would be edited out of the film of my life because it doesn’t fit with the overall narrative arc, and because my motivations don’t entirely make sense, and because everything has to make sense, right? God, films are such filthy liars.

I had a feeling as soon as I woke up that it wasn’t going to be a great day. I haven’t been sleeping well in general, and this time my racing mind had kept me up till 4am, meaning I’d only grabbed a few hours’ sleep. But I’d already said I’d help with a friend’s film project, so I got up and went out anyway. I didn’t leave myself time for breakfast, which in retrospect was Pretty Damn Stupid. I should have learned by now that keeping oneself more or less physically okay (i.e. not on the verge of falling apart from hunger, thirst, tiredness, cold, discomfort etc.) is absolutely essential for staving off unexpected anxiety ambushes.

So a day which should have been a pleasant day helping some of my best friends to make a short film turned into something unnecessarily stressful. The number of people present was probably two or three more than I can reliably interact with without eventually feeling overwhelmed. And so I gradually shut down and stopped contributing to conversations. After a bit, I stepped outside the room to clear my head and get out of everyone’s way for a while. Another mistake – I should have known that when I withdraw from a social situation in this way, I find it very awkward to walk back into it even if I want to.

My anxiety spiralled as I thought about how many times this has happened before and how stupid it is that it’s still happening, how many times I’ve thought I’d put all this nonsense behind me and was on the path to being a normal person who doesn’t disappear from social gatherings for no reason. And of course, once you start down the path of thinking you’re fundamentally broken and can’t be around people (a well-trodden path in my mind) your behaviour gets weirder to match, and makes you feel even more like an alien. It’s a vicious circle, and one I still haven’t learned to break, except by going home and feeling bad about myself for a while, maybe sending a few apologetic messages and vowing to try harder not to let this sort of thing happen again.

So I ended up walking off and heading home early, without telling anyone in advance that I was going to do it. I did send a message to my friend who was in charge of the shoot to let him know I was going. That’s a small step forward I suppose, because several times in the past I’ve been guilty of disappearing from social gatherings without a word of explanation, too afraid to even check my messages afterwards. It’s caused my friends to worry in a way that still makes me ashamed to think of. That’s one thing I’ve made a serious vow never to do again, and I hope to keep it.

So yeah, that was yesterday. Well, that followed by a lot of sitting around staring into space, typing “help me” into Google, thinking I probably shouldn’t exist, and other such massively therapeutic activities.

Believe it or not, I don’t particularly like filling my blog with these accounts of how anxiety and depression feel. They’re not pretty or much fun to read. They rarely cast me in a good light. I doubt they’re even especially interesting except to a very niche market. But sometimes… I just feel like I HAVE to create a record of it all outside my own head. Firstly to crystallise my thoughts and stop them writhing around my brain like a basket of tentacles. But also to prove (to myself? to people I know? to the universe at large? I have no idea) that it’s a real thing. I’m no expert, but if I can generalise from some of my own messed up thought processes, I supsect this may be one of the impulses that leads people to self-harm: the need for some exterior reflection of the hurt they’re suffering inside. At least by leaving ugly scars on my social media presence, I’m not leaving them on my body. Granted, it’s probably still not a great idea. Unlikely as it seems, people might read this blog looking for information on that book of mine, and instead they find this depressing garbage. Oh well. Just one of the many reasons I’m not good at self-promotion.

A more conscious reason I tend to post more on social media when I’m sad than when I’m happy is that I don’t like the way social media skews so far towards the happy and jokey – or at least more socially acceptable negativity of “rrr I’m so angry at this thing” or “ugh, I missed the bus this morning”. It often gives me the impression, when I’m in one of my I’m-not-a-proper-human-what’s-wrong-with-me-I’ll-never-find-anyone-who-truly-loves-me moods, that all my friends (and assorted internet randoms) live in a sitcom world where they may have the odd bad day now and then, get into a few daft scrapes, but in the end it’s okay because they know who they are and where they fit in and are constantly surrounded by beautiful people who are there to pick them up whenever they stumble.

Even the stories you hear of adversity tend to be told in the past tense, with a hopeful twist at the end such as “but I got better, and you can too!” or “and now I can fit my whole body inside ONE leg of my old trousers!”. As a rule, people don’t write from the bottom of the pit. When they do, it feels almost like a breach of social media etiquette. People posting cries for help often seem to be ignored or labelled as attention seekers by their friends (which always gives me a mini-existential crisis as I question what the hell the word “friend” even means to people who aren’t me these days).

Maybe some see social media as a “safe space” where people shouldn’t talk about depressing things, for fear of upsetting others. Well. While I’m definitely not one of those people who think safe spaces, trigger warnings and such are for losers, I do think the concept of them is somewhat flawed, in that VERY different things are going to trigger different people. I know personally that when I’m depressed, one of the things MOST likely to send me spiralling even deeper is to immerse myself in a bright, illusory online world where everyone else seems to be happy and fulfilled in a way I can’t even comprehend, while I press my face to the outside of the glass like a creep.

If social media were a more balanced representation of reality, perhaps those of us with mental health issues wouldn’t be made to feel so inferior to the population at large. And perhaps the taboo around mental health – which people keep talking about shattering but which still has the power to bring conversations to a screeching halt rather more often than is ideal – might actually fade away for good, and help people help each other.

In conclusion: by posting long self-indulgent rambles about my feelings, I’m actually carrying out a vital public service, bringing balance to the world of social media. In a way, by not ending this post on a hopeful note, I’m doing a good thing… which is kinda hopeful I guess? Is it? In which case, I’m not doing a good thing, and it isn’t actually hopeful??? Oh dear. Looks like I’m ending on a paradox. There’s a whole ‘nother basket of tentacles for you…

Reading: The Power of the Strange Denim Monster-Children

Universal Harvester by John Darnielle

A crooked, nostalgic tale centering around a young man working at a video rental store, where disturbing video clips begin showing up on some of the tapes without explanation. Stylistically, Universal Harvester has a lot in common with the author’s debut Wolf in White Van – non-linear, cryptic, unsettling, and interested in people with unusual obsessions – but because of its horror story setup I can see many people (including me, to some extent) going in expecting something it has no real interest in delivering. Darnielle seems quite aware of these expectations, acknowledging other possible “versions” of the story even as he subverts them. And that’s fine; I would certainly never want to say to an author “forget this strange, original thing you clearly want to do; you should write something more generic and immediately accessible just for me”. Granted, it didn’t connect with me in any profound way, but you might appreciate this book if you’re in the mood for a bit of quiet meditation on the transitive nature of people, places and things.


Children of Time by Adrian Tchaikovsky

The elevator pitch for Children of Time would make it sound pretty silly and unbelievable. A civilisation of super-evolved spiders slowly rises on a terraformed planet while their godlike accidental creator watches perplexedly and the last remaining band of humans in the universe bumbles around in space wondering what the hell to do about them? Okay there buddy, sounds like the movie would make for a decent MST3K episode at least. It is therefore doubly impressive that this book is so brilliant, profound and moving – a beautiful, utterly engaging depiction of the era-encompassing journey from the dawn of a civilisation to its apex and of what it means for a species to truly comprehend its own place in the universe. Particularly interesting are the implications about which aspects of our modern world are the inevitable products of the rise of civilisation, and which are flukes that wouldn’t necessarily arise elsewhere: the way in which the spiders read is a particularly clever example of how they diverge from us, believing their way to be the only natural, logical one. For every one of these carefully sculpted details and for the breathtaking scope of the story as a whole, Children of Time is a masterpiece of rigorous world-building and easily one of the best science fiction novels I’ve ever read.


Strange the Dreamer by Laini Taylor

Any story that involves a shy, bookish individual setting off on a journey into fantastical unknown lands is going to tickle a certain childish part of my brain from the get-go, and more so even than most, Strange the Dreamer continues to surprise and delight for most of its length. It feels like a fairytale spun out into a novel, pitch black in places but rich in wonder, serendipity, magic and romance – a kind of metaphysical romance so absurdly romantic that you can only look on with envy, cursing our own world’s relatively constrictive set of physical laws. My only real criticism is that the ending, in a manner that has become a little too familiar in modern fantasy, opts for a big straight-down-the-middle cliffhanger rather than attempting the messy business of wrapping up any of its plots. Apparently the story was originally conceived as a single volume, and the lack of closure at the end makes me wish it had remained that way – I’d have been perfectly happy with a twice-as-thick doorstop edition of this book with a proper ending.

Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson

Snow Crash opens strong – so strong that I was sure I was about to fall utterly in love with it. How can you not love a book following a samurai-sword-wielding-pizza-delivery-guy-slash-super-l33t-hacker and his sassy teenage sidekick, both employed by the mafia, as they zoom around the neon-tinted corporatised dystopian fragments of fallen future America? Even if knowingly pulpy cyberpunk nonsense wasn’t my thing, which apparently it is, I always respect authors who go for it to the degree that the opening third or so of this book goes for it. But then… I wouldn’t say it goes off the rails later on, but it certainly begins to feel more like a standard thriller, with guns, helicopter chases and more messing about in boats than The Wind in the Willows. Given the times in which we live, there are also some uncomfortable passages regarding a flotilla of refugees, though perhaps this reflects the exaggerated amoral vision of America that the book conjures; in places it feels like a twisted satirical collage almost in the vein of American Psycho. In the end, reluctantly, I settled for merely liking Snow Crash. It’ll do. I’ve been starring too many books lately anyway.

Monsters of Men by Patrick Ness

I left it way longer than I meant to before getting round to this final volume of the Chaos Walking trilogy, mostly because I’m a bad person but a little bit because The Ask and the Answer felt more like standard YA fare than the heart-pounding imaginative genius of The Knife of Never Letting Go. For me, Monsters of Men falls somewhere between the two previous books; the story is well constructed and the writing quite beautiful in places, but it still lacks some of the shine and variety of book one, and there are some fairly predictable YA beats along the way. Like the third Hobbit film, it seems to take place almost entirely on and around a flat grey battlefield – at least it did in my head, and there wasn’t much in the way of colourful description to dispell this impression. Still, I’m only focusing on the negatives out of love for Knife – this is by no means a bad conclusion to the trilogy, and looking back there is a power to all three books together than even the first does not possess on its own.


Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris

Maybe I loved this book only because I’m weird in a few of the same ways David Sedaris is weird – several of his stories, for example, resolve with the familiar realisation that’s he’s not quite as good a person as he’d like to think – but given his popularity I have to assume a lot of other people also relate to him, which is comforting. Not that his specific circumstances match mine: I was never kicked out of my parents’ house for being gay, I never fantasised about buying the Anne Frank house, my brother is generally more functional than Sedaris’s siblings, and I certainly haven’t landed in the sheer number of absurd and hilarious situations related here. Or maybe I have? It’s hard to tell if Sedaris has particularly great stories to tell or is just great at telling them. Either way, this collection is moving, insightful and incredibly funny, especially in audiobook form, where it is complemented by the author’s own mournfully deadpan delivery. Within a few stories I’d already added him to my “must read everything by this author” shortlist.

The Gunslinger by Stephen King

The first in Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, The Gunslinger takes a while to show its hand. Much of the book is a fairly standard, if wild west-tinged fantasy, a lonely trek across a wasteland, not entirely dissimilar to the postapocalyptic minimalism of The Road. And I won’t give away too much (not that I feel like I know everything, not by a long shot) but if after the first few chapters your concern is that the whole series is going to be this and nothing more… I think I can say with some confidence, it’s not. That’s not to say I’m totally sold on the series yet; this does very much feel like an introductory volume, in which before our eyes the impish author weaves a rug, tells us to stand on it, then immediately pulls it out from under us to reveal what the series really is. I’d forgive people for feeling annoyed. But after – well, after that bit where it gets all crazy, you know the bit if you’ve read it – I can’t help it: I want to know more, even if I’m not especially in love with the characters or the style of writing. Maybe I’ll just read book two and see if that answers anything… (And that’s how he gets you.)


The Power by Naomi Alderman

The Power is really something. By that I mean, in spite of its flaws it is big and important and powerful – not only fierily relevant to right now, but possessing an assuredness that gives it the air of a classic in waiting. If you don’t know what it’s about: imagine a superhero story where all the women in the world get superpowers at once, and there’s your starting point. From there on, the book primarily focuses on four very distinct characters, and does a pretty slippery job of slithering out of any genre you try to cram it into. Dystopian… apocalyptic… sci-fi… action… political… satire? This uncertainty may be the biggest turnoff to some readers, but to me it is a strength. The Power is startling, disturbing, complicated, thought-provoking, and even catches you off guard with a laugh now and then. At times you might feel it’s taking shortcuts to get where it wants to go; you might wish it would zoom out to give you a broader overall picture of what’s going on in the world, or zoom in to explain some of the characters’ nuttier decisions. But even if you disagree with its message entirely (which I don’t) – well, you might rant about the things it gets wrong about people or politics or gender or biology, but you’re still talking about it; you’re raising your voice, and look, you’re digging your nails into the arm of your chair. Don’t tell me this isn’t art.

Note: I also reread American Gods for my book club and enjoyed it much, much more than when I first read it a few years back. Given that the same thing happened with Neverwhere, maybe it’s time to admit that I’m not quite clever enough to properly appreciate Neil Gaiman’s work on my first go-round. Looking back on my original review of Gods, I feel my indifference was mostly born out of frustration at not entirely following some of the mythological stuff, as well as having my expectations set wrong. I’ll keep my original impressions up, but I’ll add a star and a little note to reflect my new feelings on it, over on the Books I’ve Read page. Where, incidentally, you can also find over a hundred of my other rambly (and quite possibly entirely wrong) book paragraphs!

SSRI-ously: my first 100 days on fluoxetine

Extreme honesty alert! If you don’t like reading unfiltered accounts of mental health stuff, don’t read this blog post. It even contains the words “my sex drive”, in that order. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

I know, I know. Mental Health Awareness Week was last week. I really meant to write this post then, but I was distracted by other things. Alternatively, by posting it today I’m making a statement on how we need to be aware of mental health all year round, not just for one week. Take your pick.

I mentioned in my last serious post that I’d just been prescribed fluoxetine. I’ve now been taking it for over 100 days. Fluoxetine is probably more widely known by the trade name Prozac, and it’s an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor), a kind of antidepressant which, in the lamest of layman’s terms, makes the happy chemicals in your brain stick around longer than they normally would. At least in the UK you can’t buy it over the counter; it has to be prescribed by a doctor. That’s the main reason I feel okay about writing what I’m about to write. Let’s be clear: I am about the furthest thing from a doctor that the human race has yet produced. Everything I say from here on is based purely on my own personal experience, and should be overridden by anything you hear in a consultation with an actual medical professional.

That said: based on the 100 or so days I’ve been taking it, fluoxetine is a goddamn miracle.

No, it hasn’t fixed all my problems. I never expected it to. To be honest, part of me never thought it would do anything at all. But it has. My life situation hasn’t changed much (yet; I’m working on it), but I feel much more stable and happy than I did at the beginning of the year. Back then, I was getting to a point where I would often avoid social gatherings even with my closest friends because I felt like I was being antisocial and because I couldn’t stop myself falling into a pit of hopelessness immediately afterwards. Today I still have plenty of insecurities, but they don’t overwhelm me; little things don’t snowball into massive avalanches in my head, petty jealousies are easier to let go of, and I think I’m a nicer person to be around.

To clear a few things up, I’m going to respond to some of my own doubts which I had before I started taking antidepressants.

Maybe I’m not actually depressed? Maybe this is how everyone feels, and they’re all just better at dealing with it than I am? I mean, how could anyone NOT feel this way when there are so many things in life to worry about?

There is no objective way to measure feelings, of course, but any doubts I may have had that I was actually depressed have been completely dispelled by the change in my moods since taking fluoxetine. I don’t exactly wake up singing every morning, but I also haven’t had any more of those why-should-I-keep-breathing days recently. I look back on those days now and I recognise them for what they were: signs that I was badly in need of help. I can’t say for certain that I’ll never have one of those days again, but I haven’t yet. Everything has been lifted up a bit. Bad days are now okay days, okay days are now good days.

I’m also finding it easier to relate to other people, in a way that suggests what I’m feeling now is closer to what they feel most of the time. Suddenly I can understand other people’s seemingly superhuman ability to brush off the sorts of little things that used to burrow into my brain and eat me from the inside out. I can understand why other people don’t feel the urge to message their friends after every single social gathering to apologise and ask if they’re still friends. It’s not that they secretly feel just as sad and insecure as I did and are better at keeping it bottled up. It’s that mentally healthy people just DON’T go spiralling into despair at the tiniest provocation, the way I used to. If they did, the world would not function even to the dubious extent that it’s functioning at the moment. So, if you feel crushingly sad on a regular basis and wonder how on earth other people can cope, I would posit that this is probably depression and that you should seek help.

Okay, if I take antidepressants I might not feel as downright miserable as I do now, but I’ll be forever wandering about in an artificial chemical haze, unable to feel much of anything at all. Isn’t being sad better than that?

This was my biggest concern before I actually tried taking fluoxetine. That the medication would make my brain fuzzy and slow. That all the vivid colours of emotion would blur together into a grey sludge. That the depression would still be there – covered up, perhaps, like furniture under a sheet – unseen but always THERE, an invisible, silent, unsettling presence.

That is not remotely how it feels to be on fluoxetine. It feels, to me, as though I finally have things in perspective – not that fluoxetine has tricked me into thinking the world is great when it isn’t, but that it has corrected an error in my brain that made me see everything as awful when it wasn’t. Things are actually clearer now; if anything made the world seem fuzzy and grey and unsettling, it was the depression that gripped me before.

I can certainly still SEE the bad stuff, and even feel bad about it. But I can see the good stuff now too. The distinction between bad and good is sharper, and I seem to have lost my joy-stifling tendency to think of good stuff as bad stuff in disguise because it will some day betray me by coming to an end. I’m still capable of feeling happy and sad and angry and shocked. But my default mood has shifted. Whereas before, left to its own devices, it tended to drift back towards lonely, angry, hopeless self-hatred, it is now anchored in a much calmer, more rational place. Sometimes this takes me by surprise; I’ll catch myself feeling happy, or at least contented, and I’ll think “wait, what are you feeling like that for?”. And then I think “oh yeah, I do have quite a few reasons to be happy, don’t I?” Which is pretty much the opposite of the spiral I’ve been getting trapped in for the last few years.

But if you get rid of depression, aren’t you getting rid of a useful motivator to make your life better?

ABSOLUTELY NOT. This is a question that fundamentally misunderstands the nature of depression. Depression is the opposite of a motivator. It’s the sense that there isn’t any hope of making things better, and that you wouldn’t deserve it even if there was.

As proof that fluoxetine isn’t just a pill to make you accept whatever crappy situation you find yourself living in, I will say this: there are many aspects of my life that I’m not happy with. The main difference now is that they don’t prevent me from enjoying the aspects I am happy with. I can be upset that I don’t have a job, and still love hanging out with my friends. I can wish I had a cute human or pangolin to cuddle up to at night, and still enjoy curling up with a good book. I am able to feel good about the ways in which I am lucky, and still aspire to do more with my life. You know, like people are supposed to.

Surely there must be better ways of achieving the same thing, without using medication?

For some people I’m sure there are, and they’re certainly worth trying too. But the hardline anti-antidepressant stance that some people take strikes me as sort of a weird holdover from a (mostly) bygone era when mental illnesses weren’t considered as “real” as physical illnesses. If I had an infection I wouldn’t try to “think” myself better – that idea would have more than a whiff of new age absurdity about it. No, I’d go to the doctor for some antibiotics. Obviously this is an oversimplification, as many mental illnesses can and have been successfully treated using non-pharmaceutical techniques like cognitive behavioural therapy. But to outright reject the use of a drug that has been clinically proven to work, at least for some people, seems misguided.

Does fluoxetine have any side effects?

For me: nothing that is anywhere near as bad as the depression was. I am sleeping quite a lot. Often I’ll get tired in the middle of the day and have to take a nap, which I didn’t used to like doing. But this may just be my body catching up on all the sleep I’ve lost to depression, anxiety and panic attacks over the last few years. I’ve also had some strange and elaborate dreams, but nothing too nightmarish.

Aside from that, my stomach felt a bit odd for my first few days on fluoxetine, but after a week it was fine. Also, this may be a little TMI, but my sex drive has been reduced quite a bit. Not the sort of thing I’d normally bring up, but as I actually want this post to be informative I thought I’d better mention all the side effects rather than getting squeamish about them.

Also, I know I said I’m not a doctor, but I have been told BY a doctor that for most people there are no serious long-term risks to taking fluoxetine, so, prescriptions permitting, you can pretty much keep taking it for as long as you need to.

Hey, um, I know I’m supposed to be your pre-fluoxetine past self, but you’re being so effusive that I just have to break character and ask: are you being paid by Big Pharma to write this?

No. And I have no idea who produces fluoxetine or how ethical they are. All I’m saying is that for me, it works. (And I’m not trying to convince you to spend money on anything, because where I live this kind of healthcare is free, as it should be everywhere.)

For you, it works. Okay. But what if this is just some weird you thing?

It could well be. But the reason I wanted to write this is because I haven’t read much stuff about antidepressants that’s as unambiguously positive as my experience so far has been. Understandably, self-help books, NHS websites etc. tend to be quite cautious when talking about them, emphasising that they’re not for everyone, and stopping short of fully endorsing them. And yeah, I’m sure they’re not appropriate to every situation, they won’t work for everyone, and some people will suffer side effects. But, purely based on my own experience, and to avoid adding to the pile of frustratingly tentative prose about antidepressants, I will say this: if you think you are depressed and you just don’t know how to go about feeling better, you SHOULD at least ask your doctor about fluoxetine. It might not work for you, or it might give you bad side effects, in which case you should of course stop taking it. Even if it works, it won’t solve all your problems in one fell swoop.

But in my case it’s made a world of difference. I can’t promise it will for you too, but I promise it’s worth trying.

Footnote: just in case anyone reading this has social anxiety issues similar to mine, I feel I should also mention that it is perfectly fine to take a friend or family member to the doctor with you. Lots of people do it, and it can be very reassuring to have someone else there to back you up.

Reading: the dirty lost pilgrims of Amberghost Abbey… problem



The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly

I went into this book sceptical. While I enjoy fairytales, I feel like we’ve reached a point where the subversion of them is the norm, and the truly subversive thing to do would be to write some new ones instead of endlessly repurposing the ones we have. But The Book of Lost Things is an artifact of such power that this criticism melts before impact. It opens starkly, as the young protagonist loses his mother in some of the most painful pages I’ve read in recent memory. From there on, the story is effed up in all the ways you want a fairytale to be effed up, and possibly a couple more. The Crooked Man is a fantastically shudder-inducing villain, and he’s far from the only threat: poor David encounters unsettlingly human wolves, harpy-harpooning trolls, insanely twisted huntresses, massive burrowing beasts and more. It’s all most pleasing if you miss those incident-riddled “point A to point B” adventures in the vein of The Hobbit. At its core is a pretty simple message about the value of love, but most messages are simple when you boil them down far enough; I’ll be quite content if every book I ever write conveys the same message, even happier if one of them does so with as much craft and beauty as this gem.

150-DirtyStreetsOfHeaven The Dirty Streets of Heaven by Tad Williams

This and the Dresden Files have made me suspect that daft over-the-top urban fantasy noir nonsense may be my guilty pleasure genre of choice. But perhaps that’s selling them short. Dirty Streets certainly has a strong premise, its main character being a tough-talking angel whose job is to present cases, in a sort of metaphysical courtroom dimension, for why the recently deceased deserve to go to heaven rather than be condemned to an eternity in hell. Against this backdrop, things get messy for the excellently named Bobby Dollar when souls begin to go missing; the action that follows is well-paced, the mystery theologically intriguing. That said, there is a fair chunk of junk here too, in particular a love story so unbelievable I was convinced it couldn’t actually be going to happen, and then it did. I guess that’s not much of a criticism though – it’s more like looking at a greasy chip shop pizza and noting that it’s probably not good for you, before you cram it down your throat.




The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman

There is more to criticise in The Amber Spyglass than in previous books in the series. The fragmentation of the plot which began in The Subtle Knife escalates here, to the point that it can be hard to piece it all together, even to remember which world everyone is in and whose side they are now on. Characters who once felt real become more ideas than believable people as, in a trend I generally disapprove of, the metaphorical meanings of the story begin to take precedence over the literal events. But these flaws are a perhaps inevitable consequence of the boldness of the themes, and a lot of potential disappointment is balanced by the cosmic scale and the intellectual vigour of the ideas presented. Some people won’t like these ideas. I generally do, although I’m not too keen on the way so many characters converge on the exact same point of view towards the end, finishing each other’s heartfelt lectures on the way things ought to be. Even with all these caveats I find the overall effect quite beautiful, and it’s still refreshing to see a young adult book take such a controversial stance, attacking huge real world institutions rather than just imagined baddies.

150-EmpathyProblem The Empathy Problem by Gavin Extence

One of those reading experiences where the emotional side of my brain wrestled against the intellectual side, and this time there was no clear winner; I kept finding fault with the book, but I also became invested, almost addicted judging by how I binged my way through the latter half of the audiobook in a day. The world it presents struck me early on as impossibly black and white: evil, uncaring bankers vs. the righteous protesters outside their building. Not terribly at odds with my own views, sure, but I’m at the point now where at least part of me wants books to challenge my comfortable assumptions about people. I suppose it sort of works if you view the story not as an attempt at realism but more as a modern fairytale, or an updated take on A Christmas Carol where a brain tumour plays the part of the ghosts, and cane-twirling Victorian capitalists are replaced by even slimier businessmen who’d be right at home in American Psycho. It’s a strange mix, but as a late coming of age story it has its moments, and I couldn’t help but find the lead character’s awakening sense of humanity quite moving. Not Gavin Extence’s best book, but it still shows off his talent for delving into the human mind from odd but often startlingly relatable angles.



Ghostwritten by David Mitchell

I sort of hoped that, as his first published novel, Ghostwritten might give some clue as to how David Mitchell developed the incredible talent on display in Cloud Atlas, marking an early and educational step on his journey as a writer. But nope, the talent is already in full bloom in this funny, globe-spanning, almost Vonnegut-esque epic. Even more than his other books, it blurs the line between novel and short story collection; some of the chapters – the one set on the holy mountain jumps out – feel easily rich enough to comprise entire novels in themselves. But there are some great “aha” moments when we finally see the quiver of connective threads binding the whole together. If I have one criticism it’s that the book is so sprawling, so dense with echoes and imagery, that it’s hard for a mere mortal like me to know quite what to take away from it, other than a general sense that everything is connected. But that just makes me excited to read it again some day, and the first time round it was an extremely enjoyable ride, and exquisitely written. (Granted, that may be the fanboy in me talking; at this point I’d probably say the same about a telephone directory if David Mitchell wrote it.)



Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

My first Austen – and I hope my university doesn’t take back my degree for admitting I skipped Mansfield Park when we studied it. If it makes them feel any better, I regret that now. I was wrong. Based on my fleeting exposure to TV adaptations of her books, I assumed that the people in them were so fundamentally different from me that I’d need to read up on the cultural context of the time and develop some sort of internal translation circuit to make sense of their emotions. But then I picked up Northanger Abbey, got to the early chapter where young Catherine feels awkward about not knowing anyone at a party, and went “oh, hello me”. This is why books are the best thing: you don’t get distracted by what sort of hats people are wearing, you just get to plug your brain right into theirs. And in the case of this book – much more so, I have to assume, than in the adaptations – you get access to Austen’s funny, sarcastic and (by modern standards) refreshingly self-expressive commentary on the social conventions of her time. Now I feel silly about all the years I spent feeling alienated by the society portrayed in her work; it turns out it seemed just as alien to her all along! Why didn’t anyone tell me?!

150-IAmPilgrim I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes

It’s that old tale about a troubled but brilliant person being pulled back into a world they tried to leave behind. In this case he’s a superspy type, enlisted first to investigate an unusually perfect murder and then to foil a deadly terrorist plot. Like many thrillers, I suppose, I Am Pilgrim seems to have a slightly Team America view of the world, particularly when it comes to Arab nations, where the populace are portrayed as simple, unhappy and corrupt at best, terrorists and torturers at worst. Meanwhile, our hero is also not above using some morally questionable techniques when shit gets rough, but these unfailingly go off without too much unpleasantness and, in one case, a victim light-heartedly thanks him afterwards, saying that a spot of torture was probably what he needed to turn his life around. Strange how the grittiest stories can sometimes be the most naive. Setting aside these troubling elements – and I’ll give the book partial credit for acknowledging some of the reasons people may end up doing bad things – it is ambitious and decently written, its climax impressively tense, but I must admit the details are already fading from my memory.

You can find over a hundred more of my rambly book paragraphs on the Books I’ve Read page!

Ripcords (and other flawed metaphors for understanding mental health)

Oh, January. Traditionally, my most garbagey month of the year. I’m not 100% sure why that is. Maybe it’s the fading afterglow of Christmas, with all its festive distractions and myriad excuses to mess about with friends. Maybe it’s seasonal affective disorder caused by the short days. In this case, I suppose it could be because one of the worst people in the world just became the president of America, or because my best friend just left to live in said dystopian nightmare land and I probably won’t see him again until next Christmas, assuming any human is left alive by then.

But largely, I think, I’m just freaked out by that new, unfamiliar digit in the year. It reminds me that time is still moving, and I’m … well, I’m not.

I’ve felt stuck for a long time now. Stuck in the same place I’ve been for much of my life, plagued by sometimes overwhelming anxiety and gradually growing depression, unable to do many of the things adults are supposed to be able to do, and worse than that, often unable to appreciate the ways in which I am actually very lucky.

One thing I’ve been struggling with a lot lately is how to deal with depressive episodes. Not the times when I feel a bit grumpy, but the times when I feel like I’m being buried alive (though the former can often turn into the latter if I can’t find a way to hold back the avalanches in my head). In my most recent books blog, I talked about buying Matt Haig’s book Reasons to Stay Alive as an emergency ripcord in case I ever needed one. This is something, I realise now, that I do a lot: I store up ideas for things I could do to try to feel better, or try to change my life, and only rarely do I act on them. I suppose it’s the same impulse that leads me to buy loads of cheap Kindle books when I already have hundreds I haven’t read. My fear of running out of options sometimes stops me from using the options I have.

In late 2015 I pulled one of these ripcords and went to see my GP for advice about my problems, which led on to a short course of cognitive behavioural therapy. This seemed to be helping a little bit for a while, but not as much as I wanted, and when it ended I felt lost again. And worse, I felt as though I’d used up a ripcord, shut off a potential escape route from future attacks of despair.

I suppose that’s the problem with using metaphors to try to understand life. If you choose one that doesn’t quite fit, you can end up playing by the rules of the metaphor rather than the reality.

Today, after a bit of nudging from family and friends, I was finally convinced to go back to the doctor. A different doctor this time, who referred me for a different kind of therapy, and prescribed me an antidepressant in the meantime. I have no idea yet if either of these things will work, but I’m glad I went. It reminded me that, when it comes to mental health, there are many many different options, and I’m sure every one of them has worked for somebody. If I’m serious about wanting myself to be better – for the sake of the people around me, if not for myself – then shouldn’t I keep trying until I find one that works for me?

It’s a classic one of those things I know perfectly well intellectually but cannot seem to accept emotionally: getting help isn’t a sign of weakness, and it doesn’t have to be a last resort. In a lot of cases, you’re not pulling ripcords; you’re opening doors. If you feel sad and want to talk to a friend – rather than worrying that you’ll use up some imaginary allowance of goodwill, maybe you should just do it. If you feel like you might need professional help – rather than waiting until things get worse, maybe you should go to the doctor. If you think of anything you could try that might help you – rather than squirreling it away for some hypothetical winter of the soul when you’ll have no other hope left, maybe you should just try it. It’s not worth waiting to see how bad things get. To return to the ripcord metaphor: when you’re plummeting downwards, it’s not always obvious how long it’ll be before you hit the ground.

Maybe, instead of putting all your faith in a ripcord you’ve never tested, you should go ahead and pull a whole bunch of them so you know which ones – oh, forget this metaphor, I told you it doesn’t really fit! Maybe, instead of putting all your faith in a single solution at a time, or hoping things never get bad enough that you need a solution, you should branch out, try different approaches, and experiment until you find something, or a combination of things, that make you feel better, even a little bit better – and from that slightly better place, you can continue your search.

And this doesn’t mean “growing a pair” or “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” (that sort of tough love might appeal to some people but I’ll always see it as corrosive, macho posturing garbage) but it means being willing to try a wide range of options, accept help when it is offered, and go looking for help when it’s not immediately visible. Hopefully you won’t have to look too far. Despite recent events, I truly believe there are a lot of wonderful human beings out there in the wild. And, as much as our increasingly hateful political culture might try, historically, wonderful human beings have proven themselves rather difficult to weed out.

P.S. Don’t mistake this for advice from someone who actually knows what he’s talking about. I have a long way to go before I can claim that title. I’m just stating things as I see them right now, because this is the first time in a while that I’ve felt even a little bit optimistic. Got to capture that lightning in a bottle.

P.P.S. Damn. Ripcords… bootstraps… lightning… I can’t seem to stop using metaphors today! Excuse me while I double-check the side effects of fluoxetine…

Reading: dancing, darkness, daemons & depression

Hey there! I’d like you all to meet my new symbol!


This little guy tells you that I’ve already read a book some time ago before reading it again more recently – just so you don’t think I’ve got thirty-one years into life without having experienced the magic of His Dark Materials.

On that overly defensive note, let the book rambles commence!

150-DanceDanceDance Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami

I’d nearly finished this book when I discovered it’s the sequel to another book (A Wild Sheep Chase) which I haven’t read, but the unexplained elements didn’t strike me as out of place, rather feeling right at home within Murakami’s usual dream logic. Talking to a sheep man on a spooky secret floor of a weird hotel? I’d expect nothing less. As ever, I had no idea where the plot was going, or which strands would turn out to be important. At one point I thought it was turning into a murder mystery, but Murakami seems to shoot down anything resembling a recognisable formula before it gets off the ground. This freewheeling style is enjoyable, but also means I never really know what to say after finishing one of his books. At some point I should probably make an effort to read up on interpretations of his work rather than cheerfully bumbling through it like someone admiring the pretty pictures in an art gallery without stopping to look too closely or read the plaques for context. But hey, there’s nothing wrong with pretty pictures for pretty pictures’ sake.

150-TheLeftHandOfDarkness The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin

As indicated by the otherworldly spires on the cover, this is a proper juicy old-school science fiction novel, of the sort you feel you should read a musty second-hand paperback of – but I bought the Kindle version because that’s the boring future we’ve ended up in. The Left Hand of Darkness follows an envoy from the Ekumen, a loose interplanetary union, responsible for making first contact with the inhabitants of the icy planet of Gethen. The most unique feature of this strange new world is its genderless society, in which people are neither male nor female, but temporarily take on the biological characteristics of one sex or the other for mating purposes. The oddest feature about the book, meanwhile, is that this feels almost irrelevant to the actual events that transpire. The story functions more as a guided tour of Gethen than as a particularly thorough exploration of the themes it touches upon. I suspect that, at the time of writing, even touching upon these themes was pretty radical, and I have to respect Le Guin for that – as well as for her elegant writing style and, of course, the sheer breadth of her imagination.




Northern Lights by Philip Pullman

From the very first page of Northern Lights we are wrapped in the rich, darkly intoxicating atmosphere of a world a lot like our own, but different in a few key ways. Most notably, people’s souls are embodied by daemons, animal companions which can shape-shift until their humans reach a certain age, at which point they settle into a permanent form. It’s a brilliant idea, sure to induce envy in any wannabe fantasy author (cough), but Pullman uses it in so many clever ways that you can’t stay mad at him. As plucky young heroine Lyra (along with her daemon Pantalaimon) leaves behind a cushy life in her version of Oxford and sets out to find her missing friend Roger – well, we go with her, in that magical but indefinable way that so few books achieve, and by the time we get to the north we are so embroiled in the ways of her world that what we find there strikes us as genuinely horrifying. Whatever you think of the later books in the trilogy – and they certainly get more divisive as they go – this opening volume is a spectacular masterpiece, and I don’t see how anyone with an interest in fantasy could disagree.




The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman

Whereas Northern Lights is a fairly linear story set in one world and told mostly from one point of view, The Subtle Knife pulls back to reveal much bigger and more complicated things going on, the mere nature of which would probably constitute a major spoiler. This is where the scope of Pullman’s ambition – alongside his hatred for certain real-world institutions – becomes clear. We are also introduced to the second major protagonist of the series, a troubled but good-hearted boy named Will, who is from our world but has that uncanny children’s fiction ability to very quickly accept that he’s just stepped into a realm of daemons, witches, soul-eating spectres and knives that can cut through the fabric of reality. If I have one criticism of this book, it’s that it is very much a middle chapter: up to and including the cliffhanger ending, a lot of what transpires feels like stage setting for book three. But that criticism rings a little hollow when it is almost impossible, at any point, to tear your eyes from the stage.



Slade House by David Mitchell

I often wish that authors would invent new types of supernatural being rather than plucking them wholesale – vampires! werewolves! zombies! – from the collective culture. In his last couple of books, David Mitchell has done an exceptional job of establishing his own unique mythology. Viewed from certain angles, Slade House seems like a classic haunted house story, albeit structured in Mitchell’s signature time- and viewpoint-hopping style, but his horrors possess an underlying logic that satisfies the rational side of my brain more than the vague, indistinct metaphysics of your average ghostie. In embracing the horror genre it feels a little like this author of astonishing power has decided to begin using that power for evil. Well, if it means more creepy delights like this, that’s okay by me. (Note: if you’ve read The Bone Clocks, you might have a little bit more of a clue what’s going on here, but I think picking up Slade House first would make for an equally enjoyable, if different, reading experience.)

150-TheFirstFifteenLivesOfHarryAugust The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North

Lately, in the world of not overly literary literary fiction (book club fiction, if that’s not a pejorative term) there seems to be a glut of books with titles like this: “The Intriguing Noun Phrase of Name Quirkyname”. I tried not to let this put me off what sounded like a cool premise: people who live their lives over and over again, always carrying forward the memories of their previous lives. And I was pleasantly surprised by how convincing and well thought through it all is – how these people have developed systems to take care of each other, to deal with members of their own kind who cause trouble, and to carry messages back and forth through time. My one criticism is mostly a matter of personal taste: in chronicling multiple lifetimes, the book encompasses such a broad sweep of time that it often doesn’t bother to zoom in and give us a close-up view, a sense of place and character, a gut connection to what Harry is living through. This perhaps reflects how the fleeting details of individual lives might come to mean less in such a drawn-out existence, but it also makes it hard for a mere mortal like me to fully relate. Still, the tangled game of cat and mouse that brings the book to a close is both tense and ingenious.

150-ReasonsToStayAlive Reasons to Stay Alive by Matt Haig

I bought this book a while ago and was saving it as a sort of emergency ripcord in case I ever needed one. When that time came (damn you January), I read it in less than a day. In it, the author describes his experience with intense depression, how it affected his life, and how he got better, at least better enough to come to the conclusion that life is worth living. Interspersed with the memoir style chapters are assorted interludes such as lists of the lies depression tells you and, of course, things worth staying alive for, but even these are extremely personal, and Haig is careful to emphasise that his own experiences may not apply to everyone. On that note I’m not sure this book actually made me feel much better – while I found a lot of it relatable, in places it prodded (unintentionally I’m sure) at some of my feelings of inadequacy – but it gave me a few ideas for other ripcords to try, and my depression wouldn’t really be doing its job if just reading a book could fix it.

You can find over a hundred more of my rambly book paragraphs over on the Books I’ve Read page!

Reading: trains, storms, magicians & haunted hotels

150-agatheringstorm A Gathering Storm by Rachel Hore

As an experiment, my book club decided to try out the website Blind Date with a Book, and we ended up with this – certainly a book a lot of us would otherwise have judged by its cover. It was described on the website as a mystery, and while there is an element of that, the mystery does not really unfold in stages or keep the reader guessing as you might hope. There is only really one twist, and it comes near the end; what leads up to it is simply an account of the life of a young woman, with a focus on romance and a brief, somewhat out of place diversion into wartime espionage – all given an air of nostalgia and not entirely justified intrigue by the framing device of Lucy Cardwell, in modern times, digging into her family’s history. I didn’t dislike this book – and towards the end there is some minor but welcome subversion of all the wholesome cosiness – but on this occasion the blind date didn’t really prove much; A Gathering Storm is more or less what I would have assumed it was if I saw it in a book shop.



The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins

One of those dark twisty modern psychological thriller mystery things. Yes, it has a hint of Gone Girl, but while that book was about characters so screwed up you could only shake your head and let out a low whistle, the characters in this one are generally screwed up in more relatable ways that allow you to root for them. At the centre of it all – or on the fringes, depending on your point of view – is Rachel, a woman with a troubled past, an alcohol problem and a habit of staring out the window of the train, projecting her dreams of a happier life onto a particular couple she sees every day. As the story goes on things get murkier, secrets come out, threads unravel and tangle together, “aha!” moments proliferate alongside “uh-oh!” moments, and readers are kept guessing until late in the game. Overall The Girl on the Train is a highly satisfying package, cleverly interweaving theme with plot, but it is Rachel’s first chapter, which draws us into the life of a character we know almost nothing about, that has stuck with me the most – a masterful example of a writer doling out information in small, addictive doses.

150-themagicians The Magicians by Lev Grossman

A most peculiar book. It contains a lot of what I expected it to contain, and much that I didn’t expect at all. In truth it feels rather like two or three different books smooshed together in a sort of culturally aware exploration of various facets of the fantasy genre. Most obviously it evokes Harry Potter and Narnia, with a dash of D&D and perhaps a pinch of Wonderland. The trouble, for me, is that this makes the world feel inconsistent, to some extent lacking in its own identity, and it’s never quite clear how all the pieces fit together. The characterisations are also odd; Quentin Coldwater, while I think he is intended to be moody, can be dickish in quite a bizarre and jarring way, and some of the others don’t feel fully fleshed out. But I’m sounding a little more negative than I intended, so allow me to pivot: there are some incredibly cool moments in The Magicians, some highly imaginative feats of magic, and some genuinely clever thematic material dealing with what it might mean to be able to do anything, to get what you have always dreamed of and still be unhappy. If heady concepts are what you want from a fantasy and you’re willing to go on a slightly bumpy ride to get your fix, this book may be for you.



The Shining by Stephen King

Maybe my favourite horror book I’ve ever read. Not so much because it terrified me (though a couple of scenes gave it a bloody good go) but because it’s so crammed with cool creepy stuff that it almost feels like the ultimate haunted house story. Going in, I had only a vague knowledge of the plot: man takes job as winter caretaker at isolated hotel, man stays there alone with man’s family, man’s mind deteriorates, bad stuff happens. But there is more to it than that, apparently more than is in the film too. The history of the Overlook Hotel is deep and rich, the apparitions that dwell there enjoyably malevolent, and young Danny’s psychic abilities add an extra dimension to the characterisations. A couple of nits I couldn’t help picking: the third-person narrator can be pointlessly lascivious towards female characters at times, and there is some stuff involving a man dressed as a dog which I’m not too happy about from my modern, tediously PC standpoint, but at most those are small blemishes on a big, impressive novel, and ones I’m willing to overlook (sorry) for the love of a good ghost story.

150-misery Misery by Stephen King

The story of a famous author who is kidnapped by an obsessive fan after a car crash, taken to her remote home in the mountains and forced to write a new book to her exacting specifications. I wonder how much of it appeals to me just because it’s about the writing process in all its infuriating, wonderful, soul-crushing glory. There is certainly a lot of insight here – about writing for yourself vs. writing for others, about writing as a reason to stay alive, about the unconscious mind solving sticky plot problems, about the hidden value of uninformed criticism. But surrounding the writing is a claustrophobic psychological thriller with plenty of subtle and not-so-subtle horrors to offer, as poor Paul Sheldon tries to employ the limited toolset at his disposal to find a way out, any way out. And the star, of course, is Annie Wilkes, certainly the most memorable character from any Stephen King book I’ve read, who is by turns scary, sympathetic, funny, clever, stupid, paranoid, trusting, childlike, calculating, puritanical and utterly depraved. I’m sure there are more sensitive ways to depict mental illness, but for better or worse, this book, like Gone Girl, is more than entertaining enough to get away with it.

150-americanpsycho American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Perhaps more than any other book I’ve read since university, American Psycho feels like an Important Work of Literature: serious and striking, with few concessions to readability, often seeming to make an active effort to push readers away. The meanness and vapidity of its characters, the interminable inventories of what people are wearing, the constant cross-purpose conversations that go nowhere — all these caused me to put the book down early on, coming back to it months later out of a sense of literary duty and a desire not to let it beat me. I knew it also contained scenes of graphic sex, murder and mutilation, and while I didn’t expect to enjoy these, I couldn’t shake the slightly psychopathic thought that they might at least break up the mundaneness. As it turned out, they didn’t make me feel much of anything either — it all just blended together into a jarring, numbing collage, and perhaps that was the point. The main character is certainly interesting (though I can’t help but feel that writing a psychopath is a licence to give any inconsistency the air of an enigma), and the overall portrayal of the culture of Wall Street is about as damning as that culture probably deserves. As a believer in artistic freedom I’m glad American Psycho exists, but for me personally, I’m not quite sure the journey was worth the headache.

You can find more of my rambly book paragraphs over on the Books I’ve Read page!