...can I explain why I didn't call?
Alright, I know what I wrote about trying to write something every week. What can I say? I haven't been in much of a blogging mood. Haven't been in much of a film/book mood either, as you can see if you check out my film blog, The Real Ratings.
Come to think of it, what have I been doing?
Anyway.
A metaphor from Nick Hornby's Polysyllabic Spree has stuck with me. Namely, that reading is a lot like eating. Sometimes, you're in the mood for something heavy - a big, three course meal, for instance. Or maybe something light, or something new, or something familiar, or something like fast food which you know isn't the best thing to eat, but which is trashily enjoyable anyway (Twilight, for instance).
Well, for the past few days or so, I've been leaning more towards familiar tastes. Comforting tastes. Things which are the literary equivalent of my scalloped potatoes recipe - personal, and familiar, and, to abandon the food metaphor, snuggly and worn, like comfy old slippers.
That's why I reread Helen Dunne's Light as a Feather. It's one of those chick-lit novels (I have a not-so-secret addiction to the damn things) that I picked up in a charity shop for about 50p, several years back.
Plotwise, it's not the most inventive thing ever. It's about a woman, Orla Kennedy, who decides to set up a diet chatroom/support group, to help her lose weight for her best friend's wedding. That information should help you classify the book slightly better - it's from the Irish side of the family, and it's about weight issues.
I don't mean that to sound derogatory, just informative. Generally speaking, Irish chick-lit (I intend to keep using that term; I don't find it derogatory or offensive, and the same goes for 'comic' rather than graphic novel) has a unique kind of style. That's not to say that every Irish writer writes like that, or that no writer of any other nationality can - it's just a trend I've noticed. And now I'm going to stop being so PC and just list a few examples; Marian Keyes, for instance, especially with things like Watermelon. Tina Reilly, although without dealing with the heavy issues that Is This Love? discusses. Like Cecilia Ahern, only nothing like so sad as PS - I Love You. In tone though, the book is mostly like Arabella Weir's Does My Bum Look Big in This?, only without so much harping on about self-hatred and Catholic guilt.
...all right, there is a bit of Catholic guilt.
While we're on the subject, American chick-lit is slightly different as well. For instance, the weight issues tend to be a bit more...well, more. I'm mostly thinking of Liza Palmer's Conversations With the Fat Girl, although, oddly, Jane Green's Jemima J has something of the same tone (incidentally, Green is English, with an America-sized ego. No, I did not accidentally leave off the 'n').
Anyway, my point is that in English or Irish chick-lit about weight issues, the women tend to be anything from a sixteen to an eighteen. In American novels, they tend to be rather larger than that.
That said, a lot of my English and Irish chick-lit was picked up in charity shops, and a lot of it dates from the early nineties. So perhaps it's more a sign of the times than of geography.
To contradict myself slightly on the craving-familiarity thing, I also read Jeremy de Quidt's The Toymaker the other day. It was a spur-of-the-moment choice in the library. They had all these glossy new paperbacks on a little shelf near the door, and that one looked interesting (as did Cliff McNish's Savannah Grey, although I haven't read that one yet).
The cover, for a start, was as creepy as hell. See that terrifying little doll? Shame she doesn't get more screentime, really.
Although the book dealt with some fairly mature themes (such as revenge, murder and organ-theft), you can still tell that it's a young adult novel. Part of that impression comes from the ilustrations throughout, but a lot of it is in the tone. There just seems to be something different about young adult novels, a lack of something to get your teeth into. And, oh look, we're back to the foor metaphor. And I've just realised I haven't eaten today.
Right, had a banana. Where was I?
The Toymaker. It's pretty interesting, and absorbing, but also downright creepy. It reminded me a lot of Philip Pullman's Clockwork. It's a book aimed at young adults, with all the blood left in, which is interesting if you're prepared for it (as you should be after looking at that cover).
Finally, at the moment, I'm rereading Miranda Austin's Phone Sex. I'm fairly sure I've mentioned that before. It's just so readable and fun.
It's essentially the memoirs of a phone-sex girl, mostly anecdotes, but with a few other things, all of it completely absorbing (and not just because it's about sex. I don't think, anyway).
I am starving. More later, maybe.
Alright, I know what I wrote about trying to write something every week. What can I say? I haven't been in much of a blogging mood. Haven't been in much of a film/book mood either, as you can see if you check out my film blog, The Real Ratings.
Come to think of it, what have I been doing?
Anyway.
A metaphor from Nick Hornby's Polysyllabic Spree has stuck with me. Namely, that reading is a lot like eating. Sometimes, you're in the mood for something heavy - a big, three course meal, for instance. Or maybe something light, or something new, or something familiar, or something like fast food which you know isn't the best thing to eat, but which is trashily enjoyable anyway (Twilight, for instance).
Well, for the past few days or so, I've been leaning more towards familiar tastes. Comforting tastes. Things which are the literary equivalent of my scalloped potatoes recipe - personal, and familiar, and, to abandon the food metaphor, snuggly and worn, like comfy old slippers.
Plotwise, it's not the most inventive thing ever. It's about a woman, Orla Kennedy, who decides to set up a diet chatroom/support group, to help her lose weight for her best friend's wedding. That information should help you classify the book slightly better - it's from the Irish side of the family, and it's about weight issues.
I don't mean that to sound derogatory, just informative. Generally speaking, Irish chick-lit (I intend to keep using that term; I don't find it derogatory or offensive, and the same goes for 'comic' rather than graphic novel) has a unique kind of style. That's not to say that every Irish writer writes like that, or that no writer of any other nationality can - it's just a trend I've noticed. And now I'm going to stop being so PC and just list a few examples; Marian Keyes, for instance, especially with things like Watermelon. Tina Reilly, although without dealing with the heavy issues that Is This Love? discusses. Like Cecilia Ahern, only nothing like so sad as PS - I Love You. In tone though, the book is mostly like Arabella Weir's Does My Bum Look Big in This?, only without so much harping on about self-hatred and Catholic guilt.
...all right, there is a bit of Catholic guilt.
While we're on the subject, American chick-lit is slightly different as well. For instance, the weight issues tend to be a bit more...well, more. I'm mostly thinking of Liza Palmer's Conversations With the Fat Girl, although, oddly, Jane Green's Jemima J has something of the same tone (incidentally, Green is English, with an America-sized ego. No, I did not accidentally leave off the 'n').
Anyway, my point is that in English or Irish chick-lit about weight issues, the women tend to be anything from a sixteen to an eighteen. In American novels, they tend to be rather larger than that.
That said, a lot of my English and Irish chick-lit was picked up in charity shops, and a lot of it dates from the early nineties. So perhaps it's more a sign of the times than of geography.
To contradict myself slightly on the craving-familiarity thing, I also read Jeremy de Quidt's The Toymaker the other day. It was a spur-of-the-moment choice in the library. They had all these glossy new paperbacks on a little shelf near the door, and that one looked interesting (as did Cliff McNish's Savannah Grey, although I haven't read that one yet).
Although the book dealt with some fairly mature themes (such as revenge, murder and organ-theft), you can still tell that it's a young adult novel. Part of that impression comes from the ilustrations throughout, but a lot of it is in the tone. There just seems to be something different about young adult novels, a lack of something to get your teeth into. And, oh look, we're back to the foor metaphor. And I've just realised I haven't eaten today.
Right, had a banana. Where was I?
The Toymaker. It's pretty interesting, and absorbing, but also downright creepy. It reminded me a lot of Philip Pullman's Clockwork. It's a book aimed at young adults, with all the blood left in, which is interesting if you're prepared for it (as you should be after looking at that cover).
Finally, at the moment, I'm rereading Miranda Austin's Phone Sex. I'm fairly sure I've mentioned that before. It's just so readable and fun.
It's essentially the memoirs of a phone-sex girl, mostly anecdotes, but with a few other things, all of it completely absorbing (and not just because it's about sex. I don't think, anyway).
I am starving. More later, maybe.
