Preemptive Retaliation

I’ve been reading more, as of late. Over the years I’ve set myself reading targets, more than a few of them have revolved around reading one book per month – which has always ended in failure. In January I’d stumble with the first book, finding less time than I wanted to read it, and that failure would carry over to February, then March, and maybe I would finish the book at the turn of Spring, only to have my motivation dashed since I was so behind on my self imposed schedule. I tried to do away with it this year. I read books last year, at least five of them, I don’t need to read any more! In fact, I’ll read zero books this year. How about that, eh?

So, as a result, I’ve read more books this year than I have in an age.

There’s one book called Never Let Me Go which has a story to it. I bought it over a year and a half ago, from the Waterstones at Charing Cross in London. It was dark and cold out and I visited the shop in want of another book and something else to do. Work had asked me to come down for a team day, but my early morning flight was so delayed that I didn’t arrive in London until after five pm, and I’ll be fucked if I work late on my job for what they pay me. So I checked into my hotel, had a shower, and headed out on a bus to finally see Back to the Future – The Musical.

So this is related to another story I have. My previous job was acquired during the pandemic, and whilst the job description mandated semi-frequent visits to the Westminster office, I never really had to go… apart from the final three months of me working there. During those three months I was yo-yoing up and down with a frustrating frequency. A colleague was telling me about all the plays she had attended during a similar boomerang arc between home and London, and for some reason I latched onto Back to the Future – The Musical as my theatre visit of choice.

Though, soon after booking, I found a better job at a different company and handed in my notice. Someone on their notice is not someone you want representing you in front of stakeholders, and so all my travel was cancelled. At the time of booking we were freshly out of the pandemic, and so pandemic policies still reigned, meaning that when I was barred from travelling on the company credit card the theatre was more than happy to rearrange my ticket.

Which brought us to a year and a half ago, where I rebooked my seat, and I was in London with no other purpose than to be there, where I navigated their impressive public transport, and arrived an hour early. So I went into Waterstones.

Back when I was younger I used to publish a small fiction Zine called You’d make a great artist but a shit Pokemon. I’d hand print and cut it and throw it around Glasgow in an attempt to do something with mine and others writing. The whole adventure deserves its own story one day, but what’s pertinent is that we published two short-short-stories from Kirsty Logan – who has continued her writing career with great earnest and has become a capital W Writer with books and tours and all that jazz. I’ve followed her from afar and enjoyed her work, and she had released a new book round the time of this story. In fact, she was in that very same Waterstones earlier that day, signing a few copies of her newest book. I thought I could go along and nab one.

I checked the shelves and I checked the tables but it was nowhere to be found. I checked with the cashier (after the man in front of me went on an unhinged rant about Scottish people hating J K Rowling, which is as perplexing today as it was when he first yelled it)(though I hope a lot of us still do) and there was one copy left in store but no one could find it. Ah well, such is life.

But I couldn’t just… leave. I had gone in there to find a book and find a book I would do. This is where things get tricky for me – I don’t know how to use a bookshop. Let me rephrase that; I know how to go in, pick up a book I want, and buy it, but I don’t know how to browse. I used to do it when I was younger. I would peruse the stacks and pick up books here and there, reading the blurb and the first page or two, but I didn’t know how to do it as an adult. So I tried it here, and I was profoundly uncomfortable. Every book I picked up, whether it was somewhat familiar or completely new, I was not interested in. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How was I expected to choose, from all these books, all these lovely books, how could I just choose one? How could I judged one better than the rest?

So I did what any insane person would do. I said “I will pick a blue book,” and I went to a table, found a book that was almost completely blue, and picked it up. Which is how I got Never Let Me Go.

But, aha, that is not the end of the story.

I didn’t actually read that book that evening. In my dallying and dawdling I actually had to rush to the theatre to see the show, and the next day I had a lot of work to do in the office and I was so beat that evening that when I flew home I put it by my bed. And then for some reason I put it by my desk, then I moved house and it ended up, again weirdly, on my desk again, and then I got a new desk and it went to my bedside. At this point I had completely given it up to never be read, joining the small collection of other books that I had bought on a whim. Until…

At a writer-friend’s house, he was showing me his book collection. He mostly focusses on screen writing, and so has a lot of books on the craft. These things fascinate me – thick spined bricks of books filled with so much white space and razor sharp dialogue. Whenever I come across a suitably thick book I like to knock on the cover, like it’s a heavy wooden door, and hear the solid pages within. Anyway, it was when I was perusing his stacks that I noticed he also had a copy of Never Let Me Go. His copy was red though, which for no reason in particular I found funny.

And so the book returned to my mind. It was no longer just a random book, it was now a recommended book. I valued this friend’s opinion on matters of media, and him having the book in his collection (and this was before he started to rant and rave about how good it was) suddenly put it to the forefront of my mind. Now I had to read this book. I had to read this book as soon as goddamn possible.

And I did! And it was good!

And in this story I learned that I am very fickle.