LANNY by Max Porter

 

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Photograph: Amazon

Second books, much like second albums, can be tricky to create. And if your first piece won a bouquet of prizes, including the Sunday Times Writer of the Year and the International Dylan Thomas Prize, then it’s difficult to imagine how one would even get started. Yet, Porter did start, and his new novel Lanny, is wondrous and mysterious.

In many ways the novel seems like a fable, with the opening passage told by the spirit of the English countryside, Dead Papa Toothwort. Brooding and plotting, he seems far from those fairies we see frolicing around the pages of Enid Blyton; this character instead slithers throughout his land, listening in on the conversations of others and flitting in and out of the bodies of woodland creatures. The way these conversations manifest themselves on paper is a little jarring at first, or at least tacky in a sense. It seems somewhat reminiscent of primary-school books to have the font swirling around the page, although soon it melds into normality and it seems more appropriate for the context.

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Photograph: Faber & Faber

After several instances of meeting these interjections however, it does become apparent that these overheard snippets, whilst well-written and fascinating, are however mainly irrelevant to the plot (the only somewhat useful snippet in the excerpt above would be “trust him with your kid”, as readers will know, and yet that hardly illuminates the plot anymore than if it hadn’t been read at all). So, in terms of being a plot device, although it is interesting and inventive, I tended to skip over it in the latter part of the book simply because it didn’t seem that useful.

But back to Toothwort,  he (or it,) has this bond with a small boy in a village, a boy whom everyone finds a little strange, a little queer, a little dazed, perhaps: Lanny. And so the novel, told through multiple perspectives, chronicles the life of Lanny as he starts to take outdoor art lessons with a famous artist from the village, and the way that relationship pans out. The multiple points of view interestingly became less distinct from each other as the book wore on: at the start of the novel Lanny’s mum had her perspective recounted in verse and then (for a reason I cannot find, but if you can please let me know) she starts to think in prose like the others characters. The same can be said for the others- they all seemed to blend into one after a while, aside from a few idiosyncratic remarks.

But what makes Lanny such an impactful read is something else; it’s the portrayal of outsiders. Both Lanny and the artist, Pete, are essentially alone. They are misunderstood and shunned by others in the isolated village community, and it is the way as the book progresses that they are peeled apart and broken down in their individual ways which is so touching. This of course resonates with a contemporary audience because who doesn’t feel alone in a world where relationships are strengthened by talking through devices, whilst sitting in a room on your own? There is a sense of loneliness in all of us, and Porter truly does tap into that with his mythic, rustic tale.

What Margaret Atwood, a Pulitzer-prize winner and orange hair dye have in common

(Or which writer does short stories the best?)

Sometimes you read three books- just randomly picking them off the shelf- and in hindsight you realise that they all seem to be spookily similar. This has, in a way, happened with my reading over the last few months, where the number of collections of short stories I have read has been quite high compared to normal! Most writers are known only for their novels, so it was fascinating to see how they performed with the slightly different medium.

First of all, I read Margaret Atwood’s The Stone Mattress

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Now, admittedly, I have not read any of her other work, (including, yes, I know, The Handmaid’s Tale), but I saw this book in the local library and decided that I might as well give her a try. Her writing style is very particular: not particularly flowery but her words are crafted in such a way that the writing is still imaginative and emotive.  Indeed, I would not be surprised if an extract from one these stories was featured in an English Literature exam, to the horror of many students searching in vain for the metaphors and allusions.

Atwood’s talent does shine through in the some of the stories, such as Alfinland, which about a fantasy writer who gets lost in a snowstorm and receives guidance from her dead husband. However, other stories just seemed to be, although illuminated by excellent writing, not exactly thrilling. There were some stories in there which just did even not fit into this collection, in terms of tone nor content, like Luxus Naturae and  I Dream of Zenia with the Bright Red Teeth. The reason why these jarr so much is because in the opening of the collection there are a few interconnected stories, with a minor character from one becoming the protagonist in the other. That inconsistency is not ideal, especially as both of these irrelevant and weaker tales have been published before, so it is not like Atwood had publish them in this collection so that they could be seen by the world.

In terms of handling the short stories as a form: some of the endings fell flat, and it would have been more fun to see larger twists and surprises in there. However, the delivery of the ideas was superb, and therefore, although I would not read another short story collection by Atwood, I will endeavour to take on her longer works. At some point. Maybe.

 

Then I embarked on Trigger Warning by Neil Gaiman

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There was one stand-out story here, called Click-Clack The Rattlebag. It proves that short stories are one of the best mediums for horror (although the others in Trigger Warning are more just fantasy/ science fiction), because it offers enough time for a premise and a twist, but not enough for time to be “wasted” on fluff, in this context, like character development and world building such as in a novel. It instead cuts straight to the fear, which is what people want from the genre, presumably.

Another highlight was a story about a teenage girl who used orange hair dye which turned her into this angry deity, much to the fear of her family. However, it is told through a questionnaire form, with only the answers revealed, so there are pieces of the narrative which you still have to fill in for yourself. On the other hand, other parts of the collection were not so strong- the poetry to say the least! That seemed to be an indulgent inclusion; as if he was trying to prove that he could write well in both prose and verse, but the real question is…can he? (Um, no.)

The stories do not fit together in any way, and Gaiman does allude to this in the introduction (which is rather drawn out), by saying that these could all be potentially disturbing, and thus all need a “Trigger Warning”. A good excuse to pull together seemingly random stories, none of which were exactly distressing in my mind. It is not that I mind this lack of consistency, but the book does seem a bit contrived because there is no new content in there apart from ONE story. One of them is even about Doctor Who, and another, The Sleeper and the Spindle, is a book in its own right with lovely illustrations by Chris Riddell. It just all seems a bit frantically drawn together, as if the publishers wanted to release another book and so patched together all his old work.

So, the content itself was much more inventive that Atwood, but like the Canadian, the consistency of the quality of the works throughout the collection was patchy, and it was concerning that there was only one previously unpublished story.

Here is, however, a lovely excerpt from “A Calendar of Tales”

I built an igloo out of books in my backyard.

I slept in my igloo made of books. I was getting hungry. I made a hole in the floor, lowered a fishing line and waited until something bit. I pulled it up: a fish made of books – green covered vintage Penguin detective stories. I ate it raw, fearing a fire in my igloo.

When I went outside I observed that someone had covered the whole world with books: pale-covered books, all shades of white and blue and purple. I wandered the ice floes of books.

I saw someone who looked like my wife out there on the ice. She was making a glacier of autobiographies.

“I thought you left me,” I said to her. “I thought you left me alone.”

She said nothing, and I realized she was only a shadow of a shadow

 

And lastly- the Pulitzer prize winner, Jennifer Egan, with her work,  A Visit From the Goon Squad

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I am losing respect for the Pulitzer committee at this point, because this book held a queasy amount of attraction. As in, the characters were vaguely unlikeable and certainly unrelatable. The most lauded point of the book was the “Powerpoint journal” that Ally had for the segment about her. This girl is 12, and so the presentation of her thoughts in Fishbone Analysis, Cause-Effect and Bubble Charts form do seem a bit, again, contrived and ridiculous, especially considering how incongruous the form is to the content.

It is clear to see perhaps why the Pulitzer committee found the book attractive, but then again it does seem too… frivolous, perhaps, for the context of the award. It seems very similar in a way to Less, which also won the Pulitzer recently, and was touted as being the first comic novel to win the Pulitzer. And whilst Egan’s novel is not comic, it is not outstanding in the conventional literary sense, either. Maybe the overarching theme of misspent lives gives it more credit, as well as the unusual emphasis placed on sibling, rather than marital, relationships throughout. That is not to say that I do not think that the book is not well-written: it most certainly is. It is just that for an international award the tone was a bit too icy, and the characters a bit too inflexible.

The form of the short story was well-utilised here, though, because it did what Margaret Atwood had only partially achieved. Each character was a protagonist in one story, and then a secondary character in another, and each segment is told at a different point in time: one details how a publicist struggles with her the failure of business, and mentions her desire to fund Lulu’s (her daughter) education. Then another story is of Lulu as an adult, where she has a more active role in the narrative. The only problem is that one is unable to develop any meaningful relationship with any of the characters, because each chapter/ story is only a few pages long, and also since many of the characters are not likeable. And not even in an anti-hero way: more like, well you deserve everything that is coming for you because you are consistently pretentious/ obnoxious etc.. It is also not clear what Egan is trying to achieve because the stories themselves do not have the typical “story arc”, with a surprise/ pay-off at the end, and yet they do not work cohesively to form a larger narrative. As in, one of the chapters could be missing, and you would not notice when reading the novel through.

It is hard to say, therefore, given the many flaws that each collection has, if one author can really be touted the “best” short story writer. To give one author this title would suggest that their work possessed a standard much higher than the others. But, sadly, they are all too problematic in their own way to be crowned. So the short-story crown shall remain with me indefinitely, until I find a worthy author.

kate tempest, let them eat chaos

let them not eat these words,

or chaos indeed. Everyone has herds

of things which tides against them, and have no time for this little

book of pretentious spittle

to contend with their sanity,

the banal profanity

of constant rhymes

about the faults of our times.

 

What can we learn from:

All that is meaningless rules
And we have learned nothing from history.

 

To blame the culture around social media

and the swamping, endless wikipedia

with words that are short

and make my face contort:

behold a lack of art

and  heart.

A stereotype is not fun

Before I was an adult, I was a
little wreck,
pedding whatever I could get
my grubby mitts on.

Ketamine for breakfast,
bad girls for drinking with

“This poem was written to be read aloud”

Is she aware that this is not allowed

on public transport, or in coffee shop

that a-one-eye-look from a cyclops

will come my way if I do?

She knew, she knew, she knew

and made this is little caveat

for the well-wishing diplomat

to lean on,  when faced with her endless

repetition, which makes surely her friendless.

 

A stereotype is not fun

I hate to think I’ll make it to seventy,
potentially
seventy-five,
And realize I’ve never been alive,
and spend the rest of my days
regretting,
wishing I could be
forgetting.

Fight Club had done this already, a cinematic vision

with artistic precision,

to discuss what is now a mere cliché

and very passé

especially the sickening form

words stuck all over the page, forlorn,

seemingly irrelevant for the spoken word,

something which should not to be read

or evidently, heard.

 

We die.
So others can be born.

We age
so others can be young.

The point of life is live.
Love if you can. Then pass it on. 

How refreshing, how new

no, how I wish I knew,

all these things

before reading a book which used old ideas

and stereotypes for its wings.

 

 

 

 

hello, hello, hello

A foreign number in the corner of magazines and computer screens: 2019. In many ways, it simply marks the cumulation of days. On the other hand, the dawning of a new year symbolises the attempts that many now make to become a better person. The metric for self-improvement is, of course, individual, and in many cases the decision to abandon resolutions can be as difficult to embrace as elaborately planned (if unsuccessful) workout regimes. This is due to societal pressure to find faults within oneself, and hurriedly erase them before anyone notices, even when you have no current qualms with your lifestyle.

But what lies ahead for this little blog? What about this little world we live in, indeed, with such a great capacity for harbouring both incredible acts of kindness, and evil? The answer to the former, and almost certainly the latter, is that although we all have some idea -hopes even- nobody really knows. We have managed to survive another year without nuclear war, but with the threat always looming somewhere in the ink of newspages, it serves as a sobering reminder that life should be not taken too seriously. I could make various promises about how often I will post, or how many books I will read this year, but instead an organic approach to posting seems more appropriate. Book review blogs do not make for internet sensations, anyway, and as much of my reading is leaning towards those necessitated by academic commitments, rather than by personal preference, this blog may become a spot for the chronicling these various textbook activities more than anything else. Whilst this will be undoubtedly useful to me, the interest in this for others remains to be seen. However I will also continue with my Winter Challenge, and embark upon various discursive essays, as well as the slaughtering of various classics (To the Lighthouse, you are next) but the general tone may become more… dusty.

So: hello, hello, hello 2019. I hope you feel welcome, and will forgive me if at times I seem distant, or boring, if ineffectual. Then again, politicians act this way, and they seem to be ruling to the country. Maybe this isn’t such a bad approach, then.

Why You Should Fall Asleep Reading American History

It happens to the best of us. Dear Americans, do not take this as a personal assault on your nation’s history- this is far from it. Instead, this is… well, just read the article.

Only yesterday I was reading “American History” by Paul S. Boyer when, at only page 6, I succumbed to irresistible slumber. And I am glad I did, because I truly could not bear it any longer. When you are reading a text that is drier than an apple ring in a toddler’s lunch, (sorry Boyer) it is easily done. Take the phrase: “Underlying the creativity and ferment of antebellum America lay the inescapable reality of slavery”. The present (the content, here) is engaging, but the wrapping (pompous language) is so uninteresting that it is almost too depressing to tear it off.

So, deprived of dreams and bored, the book slipped from my hands as I slipped into sleep. And then, a solid 40 minutes later, I woke up, and I still had 124 pages to go! But now, I felt refreshed like I had imbibed an elixir of concentration. I proceeded with my task and I managed to absorb some fascinating things about American History, like:

  • The theory New England Puritans had in the 18th Century that “God had chosen the Puritans to create in America a New Zion”, which clearly did not fade away after they had founded Massachusetts. This sense of narcissism, that America had such a unique role in history which was beyond that of simply capitalism and greed, is truly engrossing. Also, it does tonally remind one of:

maga

  • The 17th Century concept of indentured servants: these are like slaves (but with a couple more laws on their side) who have to work only for a certain period of time under their masters before they are free. They worked in exchange for a paid passage to the Colonies. As I study American History (you should be so proud of me for doing this external reading), I found it surprising that my course completely overlooks indentured servants, when  “one-half to two-thirds of the immigrants who came to the American colonies arrived as indentured servants”. Does nobody else think that is astounding? They typically spent four to seven years working before they could be free. Now there you were thinking that flights for the Christmas break were expensive. It is generally accepted though that Africans  initially “blended into a larger population of unfree labourers” before they alone eventually became enslaved. That is the truly horrific note, because it illustrates how at this point slavery was not societal (although obviously that was awful as well); it was consciously introduced. Many may imagine slavery was imported from the mother country into America, but evidently in the beginning this was not the case and instead was consciously integrated into a culture which had existed primarily without it.

 

  • Fake news existed in 1776. Who knew? Or, to be more accurate, people had their own special version of Twitter and Facebook back then, only showing them what they wanted to see. A specific example was Thomas Paine’s Common Sense, which published in January, sold nearly 120,000 by April. It is almost the contemporary equivalent of a vegan cookbook! Oh how times have changed. We really have become unintellectual. But many have cited Common Sense as the trigger to the Revolution, and how it determined the tone of the Second Continental Congress in May (where the Declaration of Independence was written).  To think that in the 18th Century a mere pamphlet could have such a monumental impact on the course of world history is astounding, is it not? One might think that Paine was a real pain, because he had just moved to America when he released Common Sense and called King George III a “royal brute” and therefore was incredibly disloyal. But actually, some of what he said did make a lot of sense, and are harmonious with the ideals of this blog:

61700-Thomas-Paine-Quote-He-who-dares-not-offend-cannot-be-honest

 

Anyway, I decided that even if I was reading A Very Short Introduction, it turned out not to be that short, so after my delicious nap I decided only to read the parts of the book relevant to my course. You can tell I consolidated and learnt some great facts along the way, but most of all, this moral:

DO NOT READ AMERICAN HISTORY IF YOU ARE TIRED. THE WORDS WILL SLIP THROUGH YOUR EYEBALLS AND THEN EVAPORATE AS LITTLE CURLS OF THOUGHT STEAM ABOVE YOUR HEAD SO THAT YOU’VE WASTED YOUR TIME AND WON’T BE ABLE TO REMEMBER ANYTHING LATER.

Instead, sleep, and then return to your work, refreshed, with a more receptive mind to even the driest of texts.

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*Yes, sorry, this only works if you are on holiday and can just snooze around whenever. Apologies if that is disappointing news.

What To Do When Hardy Gets You Down

One book, a two-week holiday and very low motivation to read it.

Yes, I have been set Far From The Madding Crowd to read. This is how it makes me feel:

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and also this

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when I realise I have to spend most of my holiday

a) mentally preparing myself to read it

b) actually reading it

c) recovering from the inane and mind-numbing experience that occurs whilst reading it.

Ladies and Gentlemen; I think this website explains my dedication to the art of reading. But not all books are the light of my life and the fire of my loins: far from it. Already once this year I have battled against Hardy, in Tess D’Urberville. I was not sure who would win that particular battle, but lo I surfaced from that struggle the victor.

1 – Me, 0 – Hardy and his evil designs.

Gone! I thought. It has been read, and suffered through, and now no more 19th Century rabbling. I thought I was safe in my English Class, as we have been studying Plath and Hughes poetry for the past 7 weeks. Well, my good luck has run out, as I have been set Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd as holiday work. I must say, I was seriously considering doing a cheeky read of the summary, but then I thought no! I cannot have a book blog and behave in such a manner.

So every night I slowly made my way through it. In a week I read no more than 30 pages. Given that my copy had 328 pages  (I know this off the top of my head as I kept on having to reference it to see how much more I had left), I would not finish in time for our first class back.

I had no hope. Like a runner whose legs are burning with lactic acid, I had tried so hard to succeed and yet felt like I going nowhere and in severe pain. Until! Until I remembered the magic that is skim reading. This is what got me through in a rapid (but orderly) fashion. Now, before you moan and complain, remember that Hardy spends 90% of the time describing a blade of grass in the field, or the countryside, which really are not relevant to the plot, which is the main thing I need.. Controversial, but ultimately true. So my top tip for getting through Hardy, is this: 

Focus on reading the dialogue properly, and skim everything else.

This sounds stupid, but it works remarkably well. Of course, some descriptions are important, but then if they are and you have missed them you can always go back and read that specific section properly. If you get to speed through ten pages, and have to re-read one paragraph on the eleventh page, surely it is worth it, as opposed to having finely-comb everything?

Of course, this method will not work for many other books where things actually happen, and the writer more cleverly adopts symbolism etc. that affect later events in the novel. Also, I know that I am going to be studying this in class, so I do not need to have an amazing working knowledge of the text: I just need to understand what is going on, and then later we will together go through the themes. Lastly, do not do this if you enjoy a book! I hate Hardy, so I just wanted to get the experience over as quickly as possible so that I could get onto something I really liked.

I hope this helps all my fellow students out there who have good intentions but low motivation:

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Nestle in on Chesil Beach: a poetic review

ocb

Throughout history intertwines itself with the present

like ivy around the throat of Florence,

whilst fear spreads throughout her bones

at the threat of what is to come, looming

heavy like moons over the wedding.

Her breaths are short;

concise

like the novel itself,

dialogue measured in grams and carefully

dosed, and so the pages are tightly packed, with McEwan

rationing each sentence and each image.

The honeymoon becomes more like cracks in the pavement,

the smiles edging into frowning crescents

as words cascade from manuals and memories

past Edward’s sombre face and into Florence’s gaping eyes.

At the denouement the audience is left on a cliff,

groping for a firm rock, but there are only pebbles

from Chesil Beach, and this is not quite enough

no

to explain what happened to Ponting

in all the years that past. So we let go

and fall into the mystery

with grace.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

It’s my birthday, it’s my birthday, I’m going to spend my money… on books.

WAIT NO, I still have about £150 of book vouchers! And it’s not even my birthday, it’s the blog’s third birthday, and because anything that is three years old is still rather insentient, it doesn’t matter what I buy them because they won’t remember anyway. (The parents will though; they’re the ones you’re trying to please by going Jimmy’s birthday. Jimmy won’t care if you gave him stick- he’d actually be delighted- but the parents would look on in deep anger. They didn’t spend £400 buying invitations that matched their wall paper for nothing.) And it’s a blog. Not a human, so no gifts required.

Anyway, this year, instead of handing out cake like last time (I mean, unless it’s gluten-free, dairy-free, and bad-karma free, no one would it anyway), I’m going to be setting some blog goals:

  • Keep up the poetry (although irritatingly I cannot enter poems I’ve put on here into competitions, so I might wait until I’ve entered them and then post them)
  • To try and sneak in some author interviews
  • To branch out into films (I’ll explain in another post)
  • To get y’all some insight into pre-released books

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I thought four goals was a decent number to have, reflecting the fact that The Ink Cloud would be entering into its fourth year. If you’ve got suggestions, please pop it into the comments section below and I’ll see what I can do 🙂

SUMMER CHALLENGE

You know it’s summer when leave the library staggering under the weight of thirty insanely erudite books you hope you will finally have time to read.

I have been given a list of books which I have been asked to read and absorb over the summer, and frankly it’s a bit of a challenge. Not the reading in itself, but more the slight apprehension surrounding the discussion afterwards when I arrive back at college.

Of course, reading The Great Gatsby is no difficulty, but will I be able to understand all the nuances and symbols of it in one read? No. But I don’t want to look like a fool, bashing some literary classic until a fellow wizened student turns to me and reminds me that the “pointless” character I’m referring to is a metaphor for anarchy. Or something. So along with all the reviews I’ll be doing over the summer, I’ll try and do a bit more analysis into the central themes and characters just so I am a bit more ‘clued up’. Anyhow, here are the books:

The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
The Great Gatsby – Scott Fitzgerald                                                                                                Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy                                                                                             A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man – James Joyce
One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy                                                                                         Mrs Dalloway – Virginia Woolf

So this is about one book a week over the Summer, which will be more easily done than others because some weeks are looking to be quite packed (like when I’m going to perform at the Edinburgh Fringe)! Now, on the official reading list there are 32 books, including Anna Karina and Great Expectations. We have to read at least 3 books, and so I’ve tactically decided to read the slightly shorter one -bear with me- because if I’m going to be reading 600 pages, I’d rather it be spread across 3 novels than one, so that I hit two birds with one stone. A bit cheeky, I know, but there’s a logic to my madness… because I also have a Classics reading list to delve into. Greek and Latin literature! So mainstream! Anyway, I’m hoping to also read:

The Iliad                                                                                                                                                  The Odysessy                                                                                                                                     The Tom Holland books                                                                                                                         A prose version of the Aeneid                                                                                                  Horace’s Odes and Satires,                                                                                                             SPQR by Mary Beard

Plays: Medea                                                                                                                                 Oedipus Rex,                                                                                                                         Aristophanes ‘Frogs’

Have you tackled any of these Classic Classics? If so, let me know what you think and if you have any other recommendations! But until then, I better start reading… or revising because I still have two exams left and should stop procrastinating.

This is Why Your Opinion Doesn’t Matter

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Yes, sometimes people with questionable opinions get into power. Luckily, this won’t apply to most people. Probably you, too.

I’ve said it. The words that millions of people across the world have been waiting for. In an age of social media where you can directly contact the President of the United States through a tweet, it’s easy to feel like your voice matters and that your voice is powerful. Which is true: in a way. Activism is a necessary and intrinsic part of society, ensuring that negative aspects are tackled but that in particular is not what I’m discussing when it comes to opinions. It’s those of individual people on an individual level.

This concept (jarring in the optimism of the 21st century) came to me as I was reading Eimear McBride’s A Girl Is a Half Formed Thing. The book didn’t appeal to me; there were odd loop-holes in the plot (such as if the boy was to die of a brain tumour why weren’t there trained nurses looking after him- why was he abandoned by the doctors to the care of his psychotic family? Or how could the protagonist even afford to be at home all the time without a job when their family were desperate for money, and then suddenly said finicial problems were never mentioned?) Anyway, these critical thoughts were tumbling through my mind when I realised that all this was irrelevant. Absolutely and utterly irrelevant. It’s not to say that I’m writing off all my past book reviews, but I just thought- who cares? As in, this is my opinion, and in the end if McBride is satisfied with her work, does it matter what I think?

Part of me thinks of course it does. I am a reader and therefore a customer and therefore someone who could pay her for future books. On the other hand, my opinion is formed due to billions of experiences and interactions that have happened up to over a decade ago which dictate my preferences and standings on all conceivable topics. Ultimately, even I cannot control what I enjoy, so are ‘my’ opinions even really my own? Even if McBride read my feedback on a hypothetical review, should or would she change her work just because I asked her to?

I hope not.

The process of editing is laborious, so her book would a product she would have to be absolutely content with, so even if I said I didn’t like certain parts, it wouldn’t matter. There will be other people who do like it. Who don’t mind loopholes. This theory of the devaluing of our opinions comes from the idea that you can say what you want, but that doesn’t mean something will change. There is crucial difference between saying something, people listening, and then something happening in response. People like to think that when they speak, it’s like to a room of open-eared fans, when in reality it’s more like shouting at a few seagulls who just stole your chips and are coming back for the fish later.

A billion people could read this blog post. Imagine. All those people I could reach just through a single post- the influence I could have on the world through my thoughts. But realistically it’s this kind of self-entitled thinking which should be prevented. Not dreams or aspirations, but more people understanding their place and influence in society.

And it’s not just about me. It’s about you, too. Having just watched one of Simon Sineck’s speeches about the millennials, (which you can watch here) it made me realise how people truly do inflate their sense of purpose and self. They are egoistical, some might say, but through no fault of their own; how can we not expect ourselves to achieve great things when “every single one of us is special and can do what we want simply because we believe we can”. This is the type of rhetoric being told to the millennials. It was (and still is) chanted in schools. To the generation who now has the highest rate of depression and suicide ever. It doesn’t quite add up, does it? I won’t paraphrase Sineck’s interview but it linked into my earlier thought about overestimating one’s impact on the world. You are allowed to have opinions, thoughts, stances on things- I just urge you not to expect it to make a difference on a global scale. It’s like being a child and writing to your local MP, adding in the essential drawing of a melancholy polar bear on a lone icecap. Yes, you will receive full marks for initiative, but don’t you think that the Houses of Parliament realise that polar bears are dying and actually yes there is a war on and refugees and protestors outside their door and-

I want to tell people to stop waiting around for modelling agencies or Ivy League universities to magically be attracted to you by your sheer brilliance. That’s what  a lifetime of unfounded but well meaning praise has led them to believe will happen. It may seem like a pessimistic article, but a necessary one. When people (at least those I know) are wracking up thousands of followers on social media it is easy for them to feel powerful; when people don’t immediately reply to emails, or you have to wait to talk to someone as they’re in the middle of a conversation, it’s easy to feel annoyed. To feel like the world isn’t quite functioning as it should. Or is it your mindset which isn’t quite functioning properly to fit into a cohesive society?

We all want a podium to stand-on and whilst a dream is fine if it helps you through the wild current of life, don’t expect it to stop you from drowning.