For me, reading isn’t a passive activity. I can’t read a book mindlessly, the way some people seem able to sit in a vegetative state in front of a television. That may be why I have a lot of books but no television. 

My mind is a noisy place, often more filled with distractions than the world around me, so I need to quiet the mental room when I read. I prefer a quiet physical environment too, when I can achieve it. I don’t play music while I read. I don’t even like to hear a clock tick in the background. I prefer it to be just me and the book.

My favourite moments are when, for a while, “me and the book” becomes just “the book”. Those are the times when I fall into the narrative, surrendering all control, losing myself in images, thoughts, memories and emotions that I didn’t generate. 

Those moments are rare. Most of the time, a book splits my mind into pieces. Up on the main stage, front and centre, my imagination is playing the book in high definition with full surround sound. The audience consists of three groups. The largest is made up of my emotions, which applaud or cry or laugh or sometimes boo, depending on what’s going on the stage. Sprinkled amongst these spectators are my mental magpies, eager to pick out shiny ideas or phrases and snatch up titbits of new information. Sitting at the back, mostly dozing, is my Inner Pedant, who only rouses himself if the performance on the stage stumbles or hits a false note. Most of my book reviews are an attempt to capture the reaction of this audience. If they liked it, I like it.

Recently, two books have reminded me that my audience’s reactions aren’t just about the performance on the stage. They’re about me as well as about the book. My mental state, my memories, my moods, my gloomy or otherwise view of the world, change how the audience reacts.

Sometimes, something in the book stirs something I hadn’t intended to think about. If the unexpected something is pleasant, uplifting or even just sentimental, then I count it as a bonus. If the unexpected something stirs thoughts, memories or emotions that I like to keep tidied away in a box marked ‘Caution: toxic materials inside‘, I may call the performance to a halt. It’s not the toxic materials themselves, but finding them unexpectedly that’s the problem. When I choose to use a book to face a difficult topic or a challenging emotion, I’m ready to deal with fallout. When they hit me unexpectedly, I feel vulnerable.

The first book that caught me unawares was ‘The Prized Girl’ (2020) by Amy Green. I found the novel while browsing my local library’s BorrowBox app. The name Amy Green stood out because I already have her upcoming book ‘Haven’t Killed In Years‘ on my winter wishlist. ‘The Prized Girl’ was her debut novel, so I downloaded it. 

From the beginning, it felt like an accomplished piece of writing. I liked that each sister got her own point of view – the older sister immediately after her younger sister’s murder and the younger sister immediately before it. Amy Green gave each of them very different voices, driven partly by the age gap, partly by the before-and-after timing and partly by the personalities of the two women. The uniqueness of their voices was amplified by the use of two narrators, both of whom did a good job. I settled in to watch the past and the present unfold and solve the mystery of who killed the younger sister. 

I lasted about a third of the way through the book before I set it aside. 

Here’s what I wrote at the time:

“I’m setting this aside at 29%. It’s well written and well narrated. It has the making of a strong thriller. I’m setting it aside because I find the content upsetting. I don’t want to crawl inside the abusive relationships and see what they do to the children and the adults.

I will be reading Amy Green’s ‘Haven’t Killed In Years‘ when it comes out in November.”

Later, I kept coming back to what it was that I found so upsetting that I chose not to go on. After all, I knew the book was a thriller about the murder of a child. I knew that deep dark secrets would be revealed, so, what spooked me? 

I think it was that both of the sisters telling the story had been abused. They didn’t react in the same way, and I didn’t read far enough to know if they were abused by the same person but they’d both had their lives changed or ended by abuse. The most disturbing aspect of it was seeing how the grooming worked from the child’s point of view as it happened and from the young woman’s point of view looking back. Amy Green’s storytelling was nuanced. Her pacing was well judged. With each chapter, I found myself more mired in these thoughts and emotions. So, I stopped. It feels liberating to have the freedom to do that.

The second book that I unexpectedly set aside was ‘When The Wolf Comes Home‘ (2025) by Nat Cassidy. I’d seen good reviews of Nat Cassidy’s horror novels but never tried one. I bought ‘When The Wolf Comes Home’ when it was published in July and then stowed it to use in this year’s Halloween Bingo. I thought the cover was gorgeous and the premise was original. I was looking foward to it. 

I started it this week and set it aside after a little over an hour. Here’s what I wrote at the time:

“I don’t have the patience for this at the moment. I’m not connecting with the main character. She’s too whiny for me and the daddy issues stuff, however ironically delivered isn’t landing with me. I’m going to set it aside and maybe come back to it when I’m in a better mood.”

Later, I wondered what had really caused me to set a fourteen-hour book aside after having listened to so little of it. The narrator was doing everything right. The dialogue seemed realistic. The what-is-all-this-strangeness? vibe was well managed. I was getting what I’d bought the book to get, so why wasn’t I still listening to it?

I think it’s because I’d found myself so out of sympathy with Jess, the main character. She was well-drawn. I could see that I was supposed to like her and cheer for her, partly because she was an ordinary woman with ordinary weaknesses and concerns. The root of her problems seemed to Daddy Issues. I felt she’d spent most of her time mounting a private self-pity party, mourning the absence of her father and her own undernourished sense of identity. I could also see that Daddy Issues, hers and the boy’s, were likely to be a strong theme in the book. 

My reaction toJez’s self-pity puzzled me. I heard myself wanting to tell her, “Pull yourself together, woman. Be a grown-up. Boo Hoo, I had no daddy! Poor you. Suck it up and move on.” I like to think that I’m normally kinder and more empathetic than that. I didn’t like my own reaction, but I couldn’t shut it down either, so I set the book aside.

Perhaps one day, when I’m serene, stress-free and happy with myself and the world. I’ll come back to this book, and go, “Poor Jess. What a tough start. How hard it must be for you. I hope the challenge you’re about to face will put your life into context, show you that you are a strong, independent woman and introduce you to the joys of found family.” Doesn’t seem likely though, does it?

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