A few months ago, over dinner with a friend who used to work as a full-time creative, she lamented the fact that she no longer had time to be artistic in the same way. It wasn’t just carving out time for her art, but the mental space she needed in order to discover what needed to be expressed. Unsurprising, considering she’s mothering young children while weathering life’s storms.

What made this stage of her life harder was seeing other people, me included, having the energy and clarity to pursue their own creative endeavours.

If you’ve been reading here for a while, you’ll know that I’m currently in the most productive period of my life after spending decades not creating at all.

I replied, This isn’t your era for that. This is your era for…

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And it got me thinking about the purpose of different periods of our lives. Perhaps one of the reasons we feel dissatisfied, and occasionally resentful, is that we fail to recognise the value of the era we’re actually living through.

We assume that if there isn’t a visible achievement, a goal reached or a dream realised, we’re somehow wasting our days. That the mundanity of everyday life is meaningless compared with the towering peaks we want to conquer. It’s hardly surprising when days blur into one another, punctuated by glimpses of other people’s seemingly more exciting lives.

I’m not immune to this way of thinking.

Since that conversation, I’ve been reflecting on the ten eras I’ve already lived through. In the twisting roadmap of my life, there are only a handful of eras I recognised while I was in them.

Looking back, the periods that mattered most weren’t the ones that felt successful at the time. There were years that seemed uneventful, even frustrating.

Years in which I appeared to be standing still.

Years in which other people seemed to be living technicolour lives, falling in love, capturing the zeitgeist and becoming their most authentic selves.

Only now do I realise those misunderstood years became the foundations of the life I live today. Of the person I am. A mosaic of ordinary days, laid one after another until they formed something solid.

That’s because some eras of life are for expansion, taking risks, embracing the world and all it offers.

Other eras are for building stability, investing in relationships, learning and growing.

Rather than looking at others, perhaps we should ask ourselves, ‘What should I be focused on in this period of my life?’

If it isn’t your era to write the novel, it might be your era to improve your writing craft, learn about publishing or build consistency in your creative practice.

If it isn’t your era to freelance, it might be your era to build financial security or teach yourself about branding and marketing.

If it isn’t your era to travel, it might be your era to learn about the history of the places you want to visit or pick up a language that makes future travel easier.

If it isn’t your era to have time to pursue your interests, it might be your era to invest in being present in your relationships and building your village.

Remember, those people who seem to have it all figured out often have years of unseen work behind them.

I share my writing journey on the Writers in the Dark podcast. Listen Now

Do you recognise any of these eras? Which period are you in now?

1. The Reinvention Era

Often marked by university, moving away, a new city or a completely different social circle. This is the era of trying on identities. You begin discovering which parts of yourself were chosen by you and which were inherited from family, school or circumstance. Everything feels exciting because almost anything still seems possible.

2. The Freedom Era

An era with fewer responsibilities and fewer limits. You go out when you want, stay out late, take trips on impulse and say yes without needing to justify it. It’s nights out, travel and independence, with no explanation required. Some of it becomes stories you tell for years. Some of it becomes lessons you only recognise later.

3. The False Becoming-a-Grown-Up Era

Usually your twenties. The era of pretending you’ve got it all figured out while hoping nobody else has either. You work long hours, travel, make plans, compare yourself relentlessly and wonder whether everyone else received a handbook that somehow missed you.

4. The Friendship Era

The era when friendships become less accidental and more intentional. You begin choosing people who energise you, understand you and stay when life becomes complicated. Looking back, these relationships often shape your life far more than you realised at the time.

5. The Career Era

The years when work becomes your main focus. You’re building, striving, proving yourself and opening doors for your future. From the outside it can look successful. From the inside it often feels relentless. Even when it doesn’t bring fulfilment, it usually leaves you with skills, confidence and choices you rely on later.

6. The Relationship Era

The years when love, partnership, heartbreak or learning how to share your life with someone else takes centre stage. Sometimes this era shows you what you want. Sometimes it shows you what you’ll never accept again.

7. The Growing Era

Perhaps you travel, return to education or learn a skill that changes how you see the world. Perhaps you look inwards, learn to understand yourself and become the real you. This is the era of expanding perspective. You begin questioning assumptions you’ve carried for years and become more curious about people, places and ideas beyond your own experience.

8. The Caring Era

Whether through children, ageing parents, volunteering or supporting friends, this is an era of service. Your energy is directed outward. Progress feels harder to measure because much of what you’re building exists in someone else’s wellbeing.

9. The Creating Era

The era of turning ideas into something real. A novel. A business. A painting. A project. From the outside it can look productive. From the inside it often feels scary and you are plagued with doubts. You continue because the work matters, and the person you become through it matters even more.

10. The Healing Era

Perhaps the least visible era but most important. Recovery from what hurts you, reflection on what you really need and rebuilding after loss, burnout or change. Progress is slow, imperceptible even, until one day you look up and realise how far you’ve come.

Which era are you in now?

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Photo Credits: 1. Adrian Dascal on Unsplash 2. Lee on Unsplash

We’ve all been there.

A new book in our hands. Maybe it’s by a favourite author, maybe you were drawn to the cover, or maybe it was recommended by a friend. You settle into your favourite reading chair, steaming cup of coffee and chocolate bourbon on the side table, and open the first page.

The first line doesn’t grab you, but you’re an experienced enough reader to know a story doesn’t stand or fall on a single sentence.

You keep reading.

A few pages flick by and your attention starts to wander. You refocus on the words. The story is going to get going any minute. A character will appear who piques your curiosity, or a catastrophe will shatter the calm.

By page ten, you wonder how long until the chapter finishes. You might even check. Then you place the book on the side table, pick up the coffee and slide your phone out of your back pocket.

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What happened?

The opening pages of a novel are vital in building a relationship with the reader that draws them into the story.

They are a promise.

You may not even be conscious of why you’ve settled into a book so easily, or why you already suspect you probably won’t finish it.

Those pages do far more than introduce characters, set the scene or lay the groundwork for conflict. Hidden within them are the building blocks of trust and a guide to how you will read the book.

Here’s what a reader needs to feel and understand in those first pages of a novel:

Reads With Alicia

A conversation with Simi Sidhu on late blooming creativity, the craft of reading, and recommended books

This week, I’m thrilled to share my interview with agented author Simi Sidhu Writes, whose creative life is both hard-won and deeply intentional. After thirty years away from writing, she found her way back to it in midlife, prompted by a single quote that made her rethink the shape of her life and what she wanted the next chapter to look like…

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2 months ago · 15 likes · 11 comments · Alicia and Simi Sidhu Writes

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It doesn’t matter what genre you read, you are almost guaranteed to come across a relationship that walks the tightrope between obsession and love.

Perhaps it is obsession presented as love, or obsession that appears to shift into love. Or perhaps it is one-sided obsession, never returned or transformed.

It might drive a character into a kind of emotional fixation, this longing for someone they cannot fully have. It might even be that characters are obsessed with each other to the exclusion of everything else, and this is presented as ‘true love’.

Do you see obsession and love as two ends of the same scale, simply stronger and weaker versions of the same feeling?

Or do you see obsession as something more unstable, even destructive?

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Why is it that readers find obsessive love so compelling, even when steady love tends to bring long-term stability in real life?

To explore this properly, we need to begin by defining the two ideas more carefully: obsession and love.

In psychology, romantic love is a complex psychological state shaped by biology, thought, and attachment, not a single emotion. It often begins with attraction and develops over time as people get to know each other.

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As I edit my second novel, I’ve realised that the themes I’m most drawn to are family, identity, and the clash between expectation and dreams. So when Kelly Mayfield at Book Beveling invited me to contribute to her 5 on Five monthly book series, where writers share five books linked to a theme, it was natural that I chose Fractured Families.

In the media, families are often idealised as white-picket fenced havens of love but what happens when those bonds are stretched, cracked or torn apart? What happens when there was never a white-picket fence or that love was built on lies? What happens when the way you see yourself does not fit into your family role box?

Those are the types of questions explored in the books I’ve chosen.

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Each story considers the tensions that simmer within families, bubbling underneath the surface, even when they are play-acting happy. Parents and children with secrets, siblings with unresolved drama, that stifling pressure to pretend to fit in. To conform to keep the peace.

Through the contradictions and conflict, through the loyalty and betrayal, the reader ponders how the fictional families compare to their own gloriously imperfect family.

Next month, Deborah Linn McNemee will be sharing five classic connected books on her Substack Keeping Classics.

Anne Tyler has been a recent discovery for me, after I picked up French Braid at the library on a whim just because I loved the cover. Those readers who also follow me on Instagram will know I’m that sucker the marketing team have painstakingly designed the cover for… if it draws me in, I don’t even read the blurb on the back.

Thankfully, it turned out that both the book and her back catalogue are worth reading.

In A Spool of Blue Thread, Tyler spins a tale rooted in domestic ordinariness and full of emotional intensity. As with most families, there are fracture lines that lie deep beneath the surface that remain unspoken, built on decades of slights, simmering resentment and secrets.

In the Whitshank family, across four generations, there is a gap between how each member sees themselves and how the family perceive them. Through flashbacks and family stories, we learn about the origin of the iconic family home, the impact of a son who shuns his parents, and the complex relationship between adult siblings. Eventually, an emotional reckoning must be confronted or ignored (as many families prefer to do).

Christmas, a time of love and peace, is also a time when family tensions run high and when the façade of togetherness can fracture into a thousand pieces. Add the serious illness of a parent into this, along with three adult children struggling with disappointment in their own lives, and you have the ingredients for a difficult family reunion.

In The Corrections, Franzen paints a perfect portrait of a family that is broken, even while its members attempt to conceal and correct their flaws. He perfectly captures the divisions that can keep a family emotionally apart, even when they are physically together.

A mother manipulates her three adult children into agreeing to spend one last, perfect Christmas with their seriously ill father. As the holiday season approaches, each child confronts their own personal struggles that leave them feeling as if they are failures. Their reunion pushes disappointment to the surface and they must confront their yearning for lives never lived.

Reads With Alicia

A conversation with Simi Sidhu on late blooming creativity, the craft of reading, and recommended books

This week, I’m thrilled to share my interview with agented author Simi Sidhu Writes, whose creative life is both hard-won and deeply intentional. After thirty years away from writing, she found her way back to it in midlife, prompted by a single quote that made her rethink the shape of her life and what she wanted the next chapter to look like…

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2 months ago · 14 likes · 11 comments · Alicia and Simi Sidhu Writes

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Footman’s debut novel is so poetically beautiful, interweaving different timelines, two countries and three voices, it immediately draws you in. It is evident that Footman’s upbringing, between Japan and England, has given her a deep understanding of what it means to feel other in whichever place you are, a central theme within Mongrel.

Even when that place is your family.

A mixed-heritage, privileged but lost young woman struggles with life as she cannot escape the deep sense of unease that permeates her days. Another young woman is drawn into the seedy nightlife of a big Japanese city. In a different timeline, a promising musician leaves behind her rural family life in Japan to pursue a career in London. As each storyline converges, the reader questions the bonds that draw people together into family, and the forces that push them apart.

Footman asks how heritage informs identity, how history informs the present and whether a fractured family can ever be repaired.

As one of three sisters, it is inevitable that I was drawn to reading a book about the complex relationship between sisters. Mellors explores the profound shifts between their relationships after the shocking death of the most beloved sibling. Each of the remaining three sisters had a different relationship with the lost sibling, and their grief plays out in strikingly different ways. What emerges is not just loss, but the crumbling of identity in the absence of the person who once held them together.

As with any adult sibling relationship, the foundation fractures are laid down in childhood and everything that is built upon this is forever precariously balanced. Between the sisters there is jealousy, addiction, resentment and anger. There’s also the tender love and understanding that only sisters can feel for each other. These emotions sit side by side, often indistinguishable, making it impossible to separate where love ends and hurt begins.

Blue Sisters traverses timelines and continents to explore the family history that gave birth to the dynamics they still live within, the impact of parents on their relationships and the wounds that must be healed before they can move forward from this loss. It becomes as much about what came before as it is about what comes next, asking whether it is possible to rebuild something stable from something that has always been slightly broken.

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If the title isn’t enough to sell you this book, I don’t know what is.

This is a wild blend of dark humour, cultural commentary and satire. A family reunion, which makes the chaos of your own family feel normal, exposes the messy relationships that make a family what it is. The book leans into the strange without ever losing sight of the emotional truths underneath it all.

Coupland brings us the Drummond family, who have strained relationships built on unresolved conflicts. They come together to watch their daughter’s space shuttle launch. What should be an exciting family trip to Florida quickly descends into madness with unexpected events and absurd encounters. Old tensions rise to the surface, new chaos unfolds, and every interaction threatens to tip it all over at any moment.

Family – the people who drive you mad but you can’t live without.

Have you read any of these?

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Active reading is the practice of paying attention not only to what a text is saying, but to what it is making you think and feel.

It is the shift from moving through a book to noticing your experience of moving through it.

Most people approach reading as a process of comprehension: understanding plot, following ideas, and remembering information.

Active reading introduces another layer. It asks you to observe your own attention as it rises, falls, steadies, or drifts.

Have you noticed how sometimes you are reading and time just disappears? You haven’t once looked up or thought about dinner. You are so deeply engaged that the real world had fallen away and you now inhabit the story.

I share my writing journey on the Writers in the Dark podcast. Listen Now

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Get in touch for Beta Reading and receive structured feedback for clearer edits. Annual paid subscribers received a 10% discount on all critical reader services and consultancy.

Most of us think reading a book is straightforward. You start on page one and follow it to the end. We tend to believe we’re reading to understand what is happening on the page.

It’s one of the first things you learn at school once you can read: comprehension. It’s taught and tested, and it’s a fundamental building block of academic success.

It’s also about perception, interpretation, and reflection.

It’s about emotion, the world around us, and examining what it means to be human. It’s as much about understanding the story as it is about understanding ourselves.

Reading isn’t just following the plot or getting the characters. A brilliantly constructed story, that page-turner that keeps you awake into the early hours, isn’t just a sequence of events typed up by the author.

I share my writing journey on the Writers in the Dark podcast. Listen Now

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Get in touch for Beta Reading and receive structured feedback for clearer edits. Annual paid subscribers received a 10% discount on all critical reader services and consultancy.

My love of reading began when I still wore my hair in two long plaits, ribbons threaded through and tied in bows. Saturday mornings were always swimming, followed by a trip to the library where it would take me eons to choose my allotted five books, followed by a fish and chip lunch, then an afternoon of reading.

During visits to relatives or family parties, I would be hidden in a corner with a book, imagination transporting me to distant lands. Rainy days or sunny haze, both were perfect to read.

My love of reading never dwindled, as I chose to read English Literature and Philosophy at university. Ten hours of lectures and seminars a week, with the rest of the time spent reading and discussing.

Bliss.

My first job in London, at a small ethics charity, happened to be right next to Marylebone High Street which every book lover knows is home of Daunt Books. Lunchtimes were spent browsing, followed by a sandwich in the park while I read a few more pages of whatever tome I was devouring.

After further study in Ethics, then Psychology, I trained to teach. Even when life got busy, when my days became filled with nappies and soft-play, then tweenies and teens, I still read.

A few books a week in the school holidays, less during term time.

I never counted, kept note of what I’d read or even hung onto books I’d bought. They’d inevitably be lent to a friend, culled in a house move or fall apart on the beach. Paperbacks, hard backs, library books, kindle downloads – I don’t even know how many books I’ve read.

Sidenote – my husband bought me a kindle when they first came out. Back then he was still a very new boyfriend. I remember being highly bemused. Who on earth would choose to read a book on this strange device when they could hold a book in their hands? I smiled graciously but worried that the relationship might not work out.

Then, a few years ago, I joined Instagram and realised there was a whole world of people out there who loved books as much as I did. Who didn’t feel ashamed that they were wasting a day reading when they could be doing something more productive. Friendly, happy, thoughtful souls who were talking about books for the sheer joy.

After a few months, I noticed that there was another side to Bookstagram (and I imagine Booktok too) that was pushing me to read more, read faster, read what everyone else was.

I love Bookstagram for bringing me authors and books I would never have come across, but there have been other times when it has made me feel I’m not reading the right thing or quickly enough. When I’ve regretted not writing down everything I’ve read so I can post about it, or built up a beautiful library to use as a content backdrop.

Then I remembered that reading is not performative, it isn’t a competition, and we all have different taste.

I share my writing journey on the Writers in the Dark podcast.

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There are times I want to read a book like I watch a soap opera: no brain power needed. Other times I want to read for emotional depth, philosophical themes and social critique.

I know that many of you will already have an understanding of literature, remembering words like foreshadowing, imagery, and symbolism from school.

But how do you apply that learning to what you read now?

Perhaps you notice something but aren’t sure how to interpret it, or forget themes as you read, struggle to articulate exactly what you did (and did not) like about a book. When you pick up a book with only time to read a few pages, its natural to not notice patterns, track ideas or understand how the writer is building meaning.

You may even be a writer yourself, reading widely and refining your craft… but what are you actually looking for? How are you applying it to your own writing?

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Building on my teaching, consultancy, and critical thinking facilitation work, I’ve created a toolkit that will help you get more out of reading because the way you read shapes the way you think.

And the way you think shapes who you are.

Each month, we’ll focus on one idea. There will be prompts and questions designed to help you hold onto what you read.

Using the lenses of noticing, understanding and reflecting, you’ll learn how to deepen your own interpretation of books, ask better questions and connect books to the world around you.

All in an easy-to-understand email, with no pressure to keep up or buy books. Apply your learning to the book on your bedside table or pull one off the shelf. You’ll be able to access the archive anytime you want, so don’t worry about falling behind.

For writers, you’ll learn how to recognise how books are built and how to apply the technique to your own WIP.

In addition to this post, paid subscribers will also receive their first Chapter of The Pro Reading Toolkit:

• What does it really mean to read?

• This is what active reading looks like.

• BONUS Core Question Deep Dive: Is it obsession or is it love?

Paid subscribers also get full access to everything I’ve written, exclusive posts, and deeper work like this that I won’t be sharing in the free newsletter. You also receive my 30 Beta Reader Questions and Guidance and printable Reading Journal.

You can upgrade at any time and immediately unlock everything I’ve written so far, plus exclusive posts and the monthly Toolkit emails which arrive in the middle of the month.

Free subscribers will still receive my monthly newsletter at the start of the month, and have access to my Beta Reader Guidance and printable Reading Journal. Nothing changes about that space, but The Pro-Reader Toolkit is where I’ll be sharing the deeper, more structured work.

If you’ve been wanting to read slower, think deeper, and have the tools to reflect, I’d love to have you with me.

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Ten books with characters that live inside your heart and ideas that bury themselves deep inside your mind. You’ll be thinking about these books long after you’ve finished reading. I’m always here to chat books so leave a comment if you’ve enjoyed any of these books or have been inspired to pick one up.

I shared five of these with Alicia, one of my favourite Substack book reviewers who shares in depth explorations of literature every Friday. Check out her newsletter for more reading recommendations.

Reads With Alicia

What my friends are reading this spring | Reads With Friends

This spring, my friends are reading a whopping 101 books (!!!) across a wild range of literature—from Greek mythology retellings and dusty Westerns to fragmented experimental fiction, Irish family sagas, and unhinged historical fiction. We have authors to deep dive into, books contributors are reading because of FOMO, and hidden gems. You’ll find Booker…

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4 months ago · 55 likes · 38 comments · Alicia

Adichie has written the most beautiful of novels in which she explores the intersection between the lives of four African women, primarily during the pandemic. Each woman’s story is enthralling, and I could’ve read a book about each one. Dream Count had me wanting to race through so I can learn about each woman’s story, but also slow down to savour every sentence.

A Nigerian travel writer reckons with past relationships and the choices that shaped her, questioning whether she’s pursued love or merely the idea of it. One woman navigates pregnancy and abandonment, struggling with the gap between her life, her dreams and her community’s expectations.

A hotel maid, who has striven to create a new life in America for her daughter, is assaulted by a VIP guest and must manage the very public fallout. A banker who has sold her soul to the corrupt Nigerian elite, in exchange for wealth, must confront the choices that have given her the life she thought she desired.

These characters, and the questions Adichie asks about culture, expectation and society, will live inside me for a long time.

Set during the Siege of Sarajevo, Black Butterflies follows an artist who sends her husband and elderly mother to safety in England, convinced the violence will pass quickly. Instead, she finds herself trapped in a city under bombardment as food, water and electricity disappear and snipers turn streets into deadly crossings.

As the siege tightens, neighbours rely on each other to survive, and she connects with a bookseller who was the friend of her husband. The novel captures what it means to endure war as a civilian who never expected to find themselves living under these circumstances.

This is the first book I’ve read about this conflict, which I remember from the time, and it has definitely made me want to learn more about this period of history.

If you are new to Kristin Hannah… first of all, where have you been for the last decade… and secondly, Homefront is the perfect place to start.

I listened to the audiobook and found myself standing stock still, and forgetting where I was, as I was transported across continents - eyes damp with emotion. This writer is not for the fainthearted - expect gut-wrenching prose than hurts to read.

A helicopter pilot suffers life-changing injuries in Iraq whilst fighting a war her husband doesn’t believe in, as she simultaneously parents a difficult teen, grieves her army colleagues and comes to terms with a marriage that isn’t what she thought it was.

The Last Queen is a fictionalised telling of the life of Jind Kaur who grows up in poverty as a dog-trainer’s daughter. She comes to the attention of the King, Maharaja Ranjit Singh, who has held Punjab from the British imperialist expansion. As his youngest and favourite wife, she learns the ways of court. When he dies, their six-year-old son unexpectedly inherits the throne and she becomes regent. The British fear his popularity and power, so take Maharaja Duleep Singh from his mother, and bring him to England where he loses touch with his homeland and religion.

Jind Kaur is imprisoned and smeared with scandal to stop her from raising a rebel army and retaking Punjab. After escaping from prison and hiding in Nepal, she reconnects with her adult son and comes to live with him in England where she dies in obscurity.

As a new exhibition opens at Kensington Palace about her granddaughters, one of whom was the Suffragette Princess Sophia Duleep Singh, this is a perfect time to learn about Jind Kaur and her legacy.

This sliding-doors style debut novel splits a life into three paths. The Names follows the possible outcomes of a decision a mother makes about her son’s name.

Her violent, abusive husband insists on his own name, her daughter likes another and she prefers a third. The consequences of each choice are played out over her son’s life, with devastating effects.

In one path, the boy grows up distant and rebellious, struggling to reconcile his identity with the name he never chose. In another, he develops a close bond with his mother but faces external pressures that test their relationship. The third path shows him achieving success yet at the cost of personal happiness and emotional intimacy.

I found this both moving and upsetting as a woman’s life is shattered into pieces by the man who abuses her.

Set across two timelines and told through multiple pov, The Storm We Made explores the end of British colonialism and the occupation by the Japanese.

In the 1930s, an idealistic mother puts the safety of her family at threat by spying on the colonial administration for a Japanese general. She wants to live in a country where Asians are not treated as second class citizens.

By 1945, nearing the end of the brutal occupation of her country, the mother is forced to face her own role in bringing about the Japanese atrocities.

Each of her children is caught up in the brutality and we see their experiences, from labour camps to comfort women, as they fight for liberation.

One of my favourite books is Tan Twan Eng’s The Garden of Evening Mists, which explores the long shadow the occupation cast in the post-war years, and this fills in the pieces of what happened pre and during the war.

Set across two timelines in Vietnam: during the war and in the 2010s. Dust Child centres on Amerasian children born to Vietnamese women and American soldiers. These children were often rejected because of their mixed heritage and raised in orphanages or pushed to the margins of society.

The novel follows two sisters forced into bar work and prostitution by poverty. Both are traumatised by their experiences with American soldiers and give birth to mixed-race children.

In the present day, a young Amerasian man, raised by a nun in an orphanage and mistreated all his life for his heritage, longs to discover the truth about his Black father. At the same time, an American veteran who abandoned his pregnant girlfriend returns to Vietnam and begins to understand the impact of his choices.

As their lives unfold separately, the story slowly draws them together, showing how the consequences of war stretch across decades and continents.

I find this perspective fascinating as it’s a part of history I don’t know enough about.

This is a story about an indigenous community thrown into a tense local election on a reservation, where old loyalties, long-buried histories, and personal reckonings all collide. The plot moves with the pace of a thriller with the action happening over the course of a week, but every so often the chapters slip into the past and are so beautifully written they slow everything down.

The characters are complicated and morally ambiguous, with enough depth that each one draws you into their world. At its heart, Big Chief is about the bonds that tie people together. Whether that is blood, found family, or community. It is also about the clash between tradition and modernisation; between living within nature and corporate capitalism; between listening to elders and chasing the promise of a better future.

The story is so engaging that you almost don’t realise that this is also a sharp commentary on the wider socio-political background that the characters are living within.

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Imagine being born into colonial Nigeria and coming of age at the brink of World War II. Imagine being a woman who must submit to the will of your father or husband. Imagine having a passion for writing but being forced by duty and tragedy to become the third wife of a cruel man.

This is Kehinde’s life in late 1930s Lagos, but even in domestic servitude she finds a way to involve herself in the politics of the independence movement and break free of the hierarchies in her household and society.

After reading Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands, I was ready to learn more about the impact of WWII on the African colonies and their march towards independence. The contribution of the men and women across Africa should be something that everyone knows about. Without them, and the resources stripped from their lands, the outcome might have been far different.

This is a sprawling, cinematic novel about the wealth and power of the Delhi elite as well as those that serve them. Whether it is poverty, loyalty or fear that ties those at the margins of society to those at the centre, no one can escape their role.

Each character inhabits a multitude of moralities, there are no clear heroes or villains, just complex humans who are caught in a web they didn’t weave.

If you loved novels like A Fine Balance or White Tiger, then this gripping page-turner is for you.

Create before you consume seems to be the mantra that I hear in all my online spaces.

Surprisingly, I didn’t stumble across this phrase until it had already passed into common parlance. I saw it shared by Amie McNee on Substack and took a screen shot, as it resonated so deeply the sentiment could’ve been taken from my own mind.

These four simple words encapsulated the subtle shift I’d brought into my own life over the last five years. A shift which has given me the confidence to not only listen to my inner voice but to prioritise it.

And why not?

That voice is the essence of me, and of you.

It is the most authentic version of ourselves that will ever exist but as we grow from children into teenagers, it is dampened down by expectation, by experience and by society.

Once I started listening again, and trusting myself above the noise that the world throws at me, life shifted.

Creativity overflowed, joy sparked in the everyday and contentment was easier to find. This is the simple wisdom that I’ve gleaned through years of striving, reading, learning, and doing.

Does this mean I won’t read a book, or listen to music, or watch a play, or scroll social media. This is, after all, consuming another’s thoughts.

No!

It just means that each day, first I intentionally create something for myself or in myself before I consume anything else.

It might be for 60 seconds, it might be an hour. I don’t count. I don’t judge. I forgive myself for falling off the wagon, but I set the intention every day.

Create before you consume.I share book reviews and behind-the-scene snippets of my writing life on Instagram.

This simple shift has altered my mood, my health and my creativity. My nervous system is calmer, my mind more peaceful and my imagination sharper.

Here are my 24 easy ideas for creating before you consume. No effort required.

(and if you want the science of why these actually work and more ideas, click on the links)

1. Create a peaceful mind.

Meditate – I love the free music and meditations on the Insight Timer app.

Breathe – 4-7-8 is my go-to box breathing at any time of the day.

Stare – I use the sky as a canvas for my thoughts, usually with a cuppa in my hand.

2. Create a calm nervous system

Sing – I’m notoriously tone deaf, but that doesn’t stop me. I have a playlist of my favourite 90s indie tunes that I still remember all the words to.

Hum – I usually combine this with a long drawn out Om, and the Insight Timer app is brilliant for this too.

Walk – I have a forest on my road and a puppy, so this is now a non-negotiable for me. Forest bathing is a daily occurrence, rain or shine (though mostly mud at the moment!)

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3. Create a relaxed body

Stretch – your back, your neck, your quads… wherever you feel tight and carry tension.

Yin yoga – literally holding a stretch for 3 minutes. Pajamas and beds allowed.

Self-massage – face, neck, scalp. This isn’t a treat you need to pay someone for.

4. Create a strong body

Weights – lift heavy or light. A few reps or more. It doesn’t matter but feeling strong does.

Spin – or whatever form of cardio gives you a buzz. If you don’t know what gives you that high, there’s only one way to find out…

Swim – slow as a water-snail and my hair never gets wet but each time I add another length I know I’m getting stronger.

5. Create awe

Music – shuffle a playlist of songs that wrench you out of reality and transport you to a higher plane

Poem – a burst of poetry followed by a few moments of contemplation

Photo – have a folder with photos of favourite places you’ve visited or screenshots of art you love. Stare at it.

6. Create imagination

Journal – free write, answer a question, practice gratitude

Read – an actual book. I dare you.

Release the artist – doodle, colour, sketch, paint

7. Create connection

Physical – hug, eye-contact, more if you have the right person

Emotional – a conversation that shows you care. No screens within reach

Social – message a few friends with the exact dates and times you are free for a call or meet up

8. Create purpose

Intention – Set your intention for the day. Try create before you consume for a week and let me know how you get on!

Goals – Revisit your goals for the week, month, year, decade. Whatever. If you don’t have any, create them. The universe will conspire to help you if only you are bold enough to take the first step.

Promise – Make a promise to yourself which benefits you alone and keep it. Mine is creating time to write and if you’re wondering how I’m going with my novel… I have two chapters left before I share it with my agent for feedback!

Let me know which practice resonates with you most or share your own ways of creating before you consume.

How do you create before you consume??

Last summer, during a big family celebration at the kind of holiday resort you only visit once in a lifetime, I was struck by how many people were glued to their phones. Everywhere I looked, people of all ages had checked out of the world and into their devices.

As we waited at reception, I gazed up at the triple-height dome soaring above me, while others craned their necks at an awkward angle, heads bent toward glowing screens. Walking through the sprawling grounds to our room, fuchsia flowers dotting the lush greenery, I noticed the same thing: occasional glances up, mostly to avoid walking into someone, before returning to the phone.

At the outdoor bar, with a cocktail shaken flamboyantly in front of me and the setting sun painting the horizon behind, others barely registered anything outside the rectangle in their palm.

Of course, I know we’re all addicted to our phones. I’m not immune to the magnetic pull of my device.

But this was the first time I saw a whole section of society permanently disappear from reality. Young couples who should have been revelling in the dizzying romance of first love ignored each other during meals as they scrolled.

Parents barely interacted with their children unless it was to pick up a dropped iPad, encased in rubber for small hands, to prevent crying. Whole families sat side by side, teenagers locked into screens, adults seemingly non-plussed by this withdrawal from their company.

In the hours I spent reading by the most beautiful pool, others sat in the soul-warming heat with towels draped over their heads to shield screens from the glare of the sun, terrified they might miss a second of someone else’s life.

Time and again, I asked myself: what’s the point of coming on holiday if you don’t actually experience it, make memories, or immerse yourself in a new place? What’s the point of having travelling companions if you never speak to them?

I began to feel like the anomaly.

The person who insists phones stay in the hotel safe, who chooses connection over isolation, would rather read that watch, who values the art of conversation over mindless swiping.

This wasn’t just about bad manners or holiday escapism. It felt like a microcosm of a societal shift, because no one else batted an eyelid. No one challenged the person ignoring them to put the phone down; they just reached for their own.

Perhaps there is something wrong with me, I wondered, if society now normalises phones over in-person connection. If only I could believe that watching life through a screen was more thrilling than taking the harder path of actually living it. But once your eyes have been opened, you no longer want a screen siphoning the joy from the present moment.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about how many lives are now lived through devices. How many children grow up never taught any different. How many adults have lost the patience for the imperfect friction of spending time with another human.

Not long after that trip, Australia banned social media for under-16s. I watched, amazed, as no other country followed suit even though the evidence of harm has been proven in multiple studies.

Then, in January, the tide finally began to turn in the UK. Doctors and researchers raised fresh concerns about the impact of smartphones and social media on children’s health and wellbeing, the House of Lords backed tougher restrictions for under-16s, and the UK government suddenly brought forward its consultation on smartphone use for children, including guidance for schools, age limits, and parental responsibility.

Working as a teacher, I can tell you this decision does not need a three-month consultation. The evidence is overwhelming.

The timing also feels reactive, as if the adults in charge finally thought: Houston, we have a problem.

Every day teachers across the world see fractured attention, emotional dysregulation, anxiety, and low self-esteem on unprecedented levels. Young people who struggle to sit with boredom, silence, or even mild discomfort. Fallouts caused by things that happened online but explode offline.

A whole generation that struggles with the art of conversation.

And this isn’t just a teenage issue.

Those adults by the pool modelled that life happens inside the screen and humans exist to passively consume content. That’s why the image that stays with me isn’t the teenagers or toddlers, it’s the adults bored of paradise.

Bored of life.

I don’t think the answer is easy, nor do I wish to fuel moral panic or retreat into Luddite territory. I use tech as much as anyone… I write online, have built true connections on Bookstagram, and value the connection my phone gives me with loved ones. The online world entertains and educates me, opens the world for travel and understanding, and helps me find new interests.

But what I saw on holiday was a wake-up call. It reminded me that I can easily slip into reaching for my phone instead of engaging in the world.

So I doubled down on the to moments of phone-friction I’ve built into my life to reduce the dominance it has and reclaim my time.

If you want to do the same, here are my five easy tips to reduce smartphone dependency and reclaim presence which work for me:

1. Use a smartwatch wisely – It may sound counterintuitive, but after resisting one for years, I finally bought a smartwatch for health reasons. Setting it up forced me to strip my phone back to what I actually need it for. The only notifications that reach me now are calls, texts and WhatsApp messages from close friends and family which means I no longer have any excuse to keep my phone within arm’s reach. I can also listen to an audiobook or music without accidentally scrolling Instagram. My watch isn’t connected to email or any other time-wasting apps.

2. Turn off 99% of notifications – Apart from calls, texts, and select Whatsapp contact, I have no sounds, no banners and no pop-ups lighting up my screen. Not for emails, apps, news alerts, sales, or social media. I don’t need to know the moment a message is received, a story breaks, a post is liked, or a discount is launched. Almost none of it is urgent, and all of it fractures attention. Turning notifications off was one of the simplest changes I made and one of the most powerful.

3. Delete social media apps from your phone – I don’t have any social media apps downloaded on my phone. If I want to scroll, I have to log in via an internet browser or wait until I’m using my iPad. It’s intentional, it’s annoying, and crucially, it doesn’t deliver the same quick dopamine hit as the smooth, endless scroll of an app. As someone who posts regularly on Bookstagram and Substack, this makes things less convenient but it completely stops mindless, habitual doom-scrolling.

4. No phones at the table – Anywhere. Anytime. This rule holds whether I’m at home, out for coffee alone, or sitting down for a meal with friends. Not to check for ‘emergency messages’ (remember, my watch will alert me), show a meme, play a song, or fact-check a political debate. I remind myself that the purpose of conversation isn’t to prove who’s right or to pull in outside validation, it’s to explore the world through each other’s minds. A phone on the table kills that.

5. Don’t carry your phone around with you – At home, at work, and overnight, I leave my phone in another room whenever I can. I rely on my smartwatch in the day, so I can’t pretend I need it just in case there’s an emergency or an urgent message. I use analogue clocks around the house and on my bedside table. My phone sits in the least-used room, always face down, always slightly inconvenient to reach. If I want to check it, I have to stand up and walk and more often than not, that moment of friction is enough to stop me.

Do you have any tips to share?

Every January the media decides we all have a problem to fix. Something we need to quit, change, or improve.

New year, new you. Buy this. Track that. Fix yourself.

If you just follow the plan, read another book, or take out an annual subscription, your life will change. You will be happier. Dreams will become reality.

Who hasn’t fallen for this at least once in their life?

I hate it.

It makes us feel like who we are right now is not enough. Like something is wrong that needs fixing. So, we start searching for hacks, routines to shoehorn into our busy lives, and things we can buy to make it all feel easier. Or we berate ourselves for not having enough drive or discipline to stick with the changes that would make us ‘perfect.’

I don’t believe in that fiction anymore.

So, here is my honest list of ten things I’m doing differently in 2026.

Nothing.

Well, nothing dramatic. No big life overhaul or self-punishment disguised as self-improvement.

What I’m doing is less glamorous but more life-enhancing.

I’m paying attention.

Noticing what makes me happy, what brings me joy, what comforts and calms me. I won’t be focusing on what I need to change or quit, just reminding myself to do more of the good stuff.

I’ve been doing this for five years, and it has brought me more of the elusive happiness than any 28-days-to-a-New-You plan ever could.

What do we mean when we say ‘happiness’?

Modern society treats happiness like a universal goal, something we should constantly pursue. The version it sells us is a brief moment, a burst of pleasure, a high that we can’t maintain.

But what if that’s not what happiness actually is?

Philosophers and psychologists have long argued that true wellbeing is deeper.

Aristotle talked about eudaimonia, often translated as ‘flourishing’ or ‘living well.’ It’s not a fleeting feeling but a quality of life built through wise actions, meaningful relationships, and alignment with your values. Happiness is found in purpose lived daily, not in temporary pleasure.

In Buddhism, suffering comes from craving. The more tightly we cling to how things ‘should’ be, the more restless we become. When you let go, life doesn’t become emptier, it becomes lighter.

Sikh philosophy also gives us a framework for a meaningful life that aligns with modern wellbeing science and isn’t only for those of faith. Happiness and resilience come through daily practice, not chasing external highs. Hukam teaches acceptance of life as it unfolds. Santokh (contentment) reminds us to be aware and grateful for what we already have, which improves wellbeing and reduces stress. Honest work (Kirat Karni) gives life a purpose and selfless service (Seva) strengthens connection with others. All of this is supported by Chardi Kala, a steady inner optimism that nurtures mental health and long-term resilience.

I’ve found that when I intentionally spend more time on what fulfils me, interests me, and what helps me flourish, there’s less room for the things that don’t. I’m not stopping anything; I just have less time for negative thoughts and habits.

This is personal growth the slow way. It doesn’t require willpower to do things I don’t enjoy, and I don’t feel like I’m constantly failing some invisible checklist.

Here’s what that looks like in real life. Ask yourself these ten questions:

1. Who makes me feel safe, seen, heard, and not judged?

2. Which relationships do I want to nurture?

3. Who do I admire (or feel jealous of), and what can I learn from them?

4. What or who makes me laugh?

5. Which activities or hobbies do I wish I had more time for?

6. What skills do I wish I had?

7. Which parts of my week leave me energised rather than drained?

8. What challenges me and pushes me to grow?

9. Which parts of my online world genuinely support my wellbeing?

10. What self-care ritual can I gift myself each day?

This year I’m not cutting things out of my life because I think I should. I’m adding things in because they make me feel more alive.

That’s my version of a New Year reset. Not a new me. Just more of the parts of me that already feel right.

So, if you’re feeling the pressure to change in 2026, let this be your permission slip to pause and reflect on what you want more of in your own life.

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I started writing my first novel in the autumn of 2023. It had been decades since I’d written anything creative.

At first, it was simply about making space in my life for something new. Then I began to slow down and journal. Over time, the words drifted into a scene, and those characters took up residence in my head until chapters built on chapters.

I wrote obsessively, trying to capture the story as it poured onto the page. Early mornings before work, weekends at my desk, a few sentences while waiting at sports practice.

Every moment counted. Three months later, I had a first draft.

My second novel, like second children, is a very different baby. This time the creative process has been shaped by everything I’ve taught myself about writing. I’ve hoovered up countless podcasts, blogs, and books. Absorbed all I can from writing friends and mentors I’ve met along the way.

I also don’t have the niggling worry about finding an agent taking me away from the creativity. Having an agent has been transformative. Knowing an expert believes in me has bolstered my confidence, and Louise has become the person I can share ideas with, someone who genuinely cheers me on.

At the start of the summer, I shared the five novels I could write. All of them at various stages of development. One idea was just a pitch, another had been developed into a synopsis. A third had the chapters outlined, and a fourth was nothing more than a first chapter.

The fifth, the one I thought I should finish because I’d already poured so much time into it, had three chapters written and the rest outlined. But that isn’t the one I’m writing.

My current work in progress popped into my mind while watching a TV show. (No spoilers… you’ll have to wait to find out which one.) It sparked childhood memories of the 80s, my experiences growing up around business and ethnic food brands, and suddenly new characters were demanding my attention.

Secretly, this was the book I wanted to write most, and luckily it was the story my agent most wanted to read.

So, I started in July, turning my synopsis into a rough outline and writing 30,000 words over four months. I fell down a rabbit hole of research into 1987, setting myself the arbitrary goal of finishing the first draft in November, the month when writers across the world attempt to write a novel.

I failed to meet my thirty-five thousand word goal for the month, but wasn’t far off with a few chapters left to write. I’m not beating myself up about failing… life interrupted and thirty thousand words over thirty days isn’t too shabby.

Whether you’re writing, making, creating or building something entirely different, here are ten lessons I’ve learned that will keep you going when it gets tough:

1. Create for yourself first. Most creative work begins privately, long before anyone else cares.

2. The first attempt will be messy. Accepting the mess frees you to keep going - it’s the foundation, not failure.

3. Discipline beats inspiration. Show up even when you don’t feel like it, even when the inspiration is hard to find.

4. Your authenticity grows through repetition. It doesn’t appear in a single moment. It develops sentence by sentence, brushstroke by brushstroke, note by note.

5. Sharing is scary, but hiding is worse. Being vulnerable with your work, taking note of feedback, will help you to improve it.

6. Progress comes in many forms. Outlining, researching, thinking, noticing… it all counts.

7. Keep rituals simple but sacred. I write first thing, after making my coffee, with no tech distractions and a timer.

8. Don’t underestimate what you can achieve in twenty uninterrupted minutes.

9. Resist the urge to edit early. Beauty can come later; finishing comes first.

10. Give yourself permission to feel proud. You created. You persisted. You moved forward. That is enough.

Writing will humble you, and I’ll never stop learning. What have you learned about your own creative process?

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If you want a book you can’t put down, that keeps you turning those pages long after you should’ve turned the light out, you must read this literary thriller. The characters are so vividly drawn, that it feels like the reader is walking through the decades with them. Set primarily in the 1970s, but spanning a lifetime through shifting timelines, in this novel Knoll questions the treatment of notorious serial killers like Ted Bundy.

A sorority president wakes to a scene of violence with two sisters dead and two more mutilated. Years earlier, another young woman loses a friend to a mysterious disappearance that haunts her. When they cross paths they are determined to uncover the truth and challenge the media sensationalisation of the killer.

Raising questions about the treatment of female victims of violent crime, as well as the media’s glorification of male perpetrators of misogyny, this book will have you thinking about the psychology of a society that still perpetuates this.

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Based on a true story, Hampshire fictionalises a 1960s American husband’s discovery that his Austrian housewife (who lives with him in suburban Queens) is a former Nazi concentration camp guard. Husband and wife each have a chapter in the first person. The husband shares the story of their love affair, meeting in the late 1950s in Austria, marrying in Canada and building a life together in New York which is destroyed by a knock on the door from a New York Times reporter writing an expose. The wife tells her story from 15 year old naive housemaid, to prison guard, to concentration camp where she is known at The Mare because she kicks women and children to death.

The moral complexity of the novel poses questions that provoke deep reflection, such as: What is the influence of propaganda and society on her actions? How far is the country and state responsible and how far is the individual? Should one person be convicted when thousands of others live hiding their past? Can anyone ever really be forgiven for evil? Should you stay with the person you love, even if they have a secret past that defies your beliefs? If the allies had lost WWII, would they have been tried for their own atrocities such as Dresden and Hiroshima?

Whilst parts of the book are obviously harrowing, others show how love exists side by side with evil, with the beauty of nature seeping into the harshest of environments.

I didn’t realise that this book was based on an actual slave jail and the imagined life of a real woman until I finished the book, at which point I dove straight down a rabbit-hole of research. This story was inspired by Mary Lumpkin, a mixed-race enslaved woman, who was married to a jailer who owned a holding pen for more than 300,000 enslaved people in the mid-1800s. He was so notorious for his cruelty that the jail was known as the ‘Devil’s Half Acre’. Mary, who was known as the ‘Yellow Wife’, bore him five children.

When Johnson came across this story, she says she couldn’t stop thinking about what life must have been like for this woman and others like her who were held in captivity doing everything possible to ensure their children’s safety and survival, whilst around them their peers were tortured and murdered.

The book follows Pheby who is the child of a white master and enslaved woman. She enjoys a relatively safe and happy childhood, even being taught to read by her white aunt before this ally’s death. Pheby’s father promises to free her and send her north to school once she turns eighteen. Just before her birthday, her parents are killed in an accident, and in the absence of their protection the master’s widow sends her to jail. There she comes to the attention of the jailer and must please him or face the violence inflicted on the other inmates. Once her children are born, Pheby does everything she can to give them the future that was cruelly snatched away from her.

My debut novel was inspired by my own family’s experiences of the partition of Punjab between Pakistan and India in 1947, and the subsequent emigration of many Sikhs to England in the 1950s and 60s. Although I researched the aftermath of the decision to divide India, the build up and other four partitions that took place when the Indian Empire was broken up are areas that I knew far too little about.

With vivid prose, Dalrymple explores the dying days of colonial rule when British India was separated and the ramifications are still being felt today. From Aden in the Gulf to Burma, a vast swathe of South Asia was plummeted into economic and political turmoil as the fight for independence forced Britain to rethink it’s empire. The region was further unsettled by World War II as citizens grappled with fighting on behalf of an empire which subjugated them, or joining forces with countries that were committing atrocities (such as Japan) to accelerate their own quest for freedom.

Meticulously researched, Shattered Lands takes the reader through the lead up to Burma’s exit from the empire in 1937 to the creation of Bangladesh in 1971. It becomes clear, each step of the way, that that none of the borders we see today were inevitable but were decided by politicians, from all sides, who wrangled with each other until the bitter end.

This is a book which reframes physical geography in an economic and political context. Marshall takes the reader across each continent with his easy-to-read, accessible prose, highlighting how the natural world has shaped the countries in that area. I found the explanations of how and why different countries have developed in different ways fascinating. Marshall also explores why the rate of growth is different, as well as how different features like rivers and mountain ranges have promoted or inhibited both the movement of people and the sharing of ideas.

There are also two children’s version of this book, one suitable for teenagers and the other is a beautifully illustrated overview for younger readers.

Aimed at younger readers but thoroughly enjoyable at any age, with this book Mosse aims to put the women and girls who’ve been forgotten from history firmly back on the map. Women currently make up only 0.5% of recorded history, and this book shines a light on lives that have otherwise been forgotten by those who decide what should be written down.

There are short, easy to understand, biographies of women who should be celebrated and remembered as well as longer essays exploring feminism, including the vital place of men within this movement. From sportswomen to authors, politicians to explorers, there’s so much to learn from Mosse’s book. Perfect for dipping into when you have a few minutes and would rather read than doomscroll, or to share and discuss with someone else.

A laugh-out loud, biting, satire on the lives of the rich in New Delhi where a young man is working his way out of poverty by committing academic fraud. Ramesh capitalises on his intelligence by taking exams for lazy, pompous rich boys and is making a killing until he accidentally scores the highest mark in the country for the university entrance exam, the All Indias. His client is propelled to national stardom, but needs Ramesh by his side to coach him through. A thriller, interwoven with hilarious reflections on modern-urban India, Ramesh finds himself drawn deeper into a web of corruption. Fast-paced and full of plot twists, the narrator had me chuckling to myself throughout.

If Tom Hanks narrating The Dutch House isn’t the best bit of casting since Forrest Gump, I don’t know what is. His captivating voice will forever live in my mind as the protagonist who we follow across a lifetime in this novel. This is my first book by Patchett, and her writing is sublime so I’ll be reading her whole back-catalogue. Watch this space for more reviews!

The novel follows two children who live in a beautiful house near Philadelphia and find their life upended by an absent mother and father who marries an evil second wife, and then dies. Spread over five decades, the story flits back and forth through their lives until the reader feels as if they have lived each of their memories with them. An exploration of sibling relationships, the search for belonging, and the wound that parents leave behind that never heals.

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Stumbling across this audiobook, narrated by the author, was like finding a part of my soul that I didn’t know was missing. The atmospheric voice, the yearning, and the emotion of a life waiting to begin. This is both a coming-of-age novel and a zen-treatise on the human condition.

A novelist who lives on a remote Island off the west coast of Canada finds a diary washed up on the shore. The diary is written by a 16-year-old girl from Tokyo who’s documenting her last days before she plans to disappear. But fate has other plans.

Through parallel narratives, the two women connect across time and space as this novel explores how loneliness bleeds into the crevices of our lives.

Literary fiction at it’s best.

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Six years ago, just before the global Covid lockdown, I found myself hovering at the edges of my own life. Life was busy, with two primary-age children, and I was allegedly living my dream… teaching, running an educational consultancy, managing freelancers, and patriotically waving the flag for the 5am club.

Determined to have it all, there were intense HIIT workouts squeezed in alongside housework before anyone else woke up, weeknights out with the school mums leading to groggy mornings, weekends ferrying children to early-morning activities or noisy birthday parties, and evenings with friends where I finally got to relax.

Phew, I feel exhausted writing about it.

Then what still sounds like a silly thing to be upset about, so silly I can barely even mention it, happened. I wasn’t invited to something. Something that took months to plan and happened once in a lifetime. Though I’m sure no one involved will read this, or even has any idea how wounded I was, I won’t go into detail, but I will explain why it floored me.

I’d thought I was an integral part of a group of friends I saw a few times a week and always made time for in my life. Then it dawned on me: there must be another WhatsApp group I wasn’t in. They didn’t see me as close a friend as I saw them.

That hit hard.

Here I was, pushed for time and energy, no time to breathe let alone think about my own needs, yet I’d been pouring energy into relationships that didn’t truly value me. By the time I was invited, months after I found out about it, I declined.

I was already too deep in the painful process of severing my nose to spite my face.

Pride and embarrassment stopped me from asking why, but even though the thought of it still stings every time I see them, I’m glad it happened. It was the catalyst for me starting the slow process of reflecting on my life, on my purpose, on what truly made me happy.

And once I started, I couldn’t stop.

Unlike many, the Covid months didn’t bring me any let-up from my responsibilities. As a teacher, I worked all the way through, as did my partner, and coupled with the attempt at home education (which was no easier despite my profession), I emerged a burnt-out wreck.

But within that, a new rhythm began to form. Quiet evenings and weekends at home. Time with family without the pressures of the modern world. No commuting across London.

A pruning back of life.

Almost every friendship group I had been in, some decades old, changed. It seemed that others were feeling the same shift in their lives. Some of this rebalancing felt like a natural evolution to me, while part felt like being pushed out of friendships I didn’t want to lose.

This time, I built it into my self-reflection. Being busy hadn’t brought me the happiness it had promised. Without the noise and the buzz of constant stimulation, with those endless dopamine hits from striving, socialising and scrolling, a more authentic version of me emerged.

Suddenly, I didn’t find any enjoyment in binge watching TV and being out late in the evening multiple times a week felt like a chore. As I stopped trying to be interesting, my social life dwindled, and I waited for the promised thing that is for me to arrive to fill the empty space.

Long walks, bike rides and weight-lifting replaced the cortisol-inducing exercise I’d been cramming into my life. Cups of tea and staring at the garden replaced the urge to be productive every minute of the day. I even gave in to the you really should try yoga advice from my well-intentioned sisters and found that something I couldn’t practice previously, because I couldn’t calm my mind, became an integral part of my healing.

It is only now that I realise I had followed a path through a kind of dopamine reset, into a stillness that helped my soul recover. Although the dopamine detox trend has been debunked, there are still many benefits to reducing constant novelty, like social media, multitasking, and busyness.

By slowing down, cutting overstimulation, and letting myself feel boredom again, I unknowingly gave my brain the chance to rebalance.

Through slow living, and by resisting the urge to fill my days with quick fixes and false urgency, I brought myself to the edge of something unexpected: my midlife creativity.

So how did this end up in a novel?

Instead of avoiding discomfort I leant into it, as something to be experienced, processed, and moved through. I pulled my soul friends, those who had joined me in different decades of my life and melded to my heart, and family closer.

I let myself read as much as I wanted, as I had before the responsibilities of life took over. I met a group of local women whose holistic yoga practice helped me to heal. New friendships developed on what I had thought was a solitary path.

I walked more, lifted weights, and listened to silence.

Once I moved all devices out of the bedroom, I started journalling as soon as I woke up instead of letting the world in. A few months later, that turned into a scene, which evolved into a chapter, and suddenly, a story emerged.

It turns out that overstimulation doesn’t make you happier or more fulfilled. It steals your enjoyment of the natural and the simple. It dulls your own voice, stifles your thoughts and stills the creativity waiting to grow inside.

And in the space that boredom left behind, creativity emerged.

Maybe becoming boring was exactly what I needed to become myself again.

Have you gone through your own version of a dopamine reset? A moment where slowing down or being boring brought something unexpected into your life?

Photo Credits:

1. Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

2. Joyce G by Unsplash

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A year ago, I hit publish on my very first Substack post. I had no idea what I was doing, no clear plan, and a huge amount of fear about anyone actually reading my words.

I only told a few friends and close family (not that I’ve told many more in the last year!). My first newsletter went out to a handful of people and I wondered why I’d embarked on this journey.

Over the past 12 months, I’ve learned a lot. Not just about writing online but about writing itself. About patience with my creativity, vulnerability in my writing, and trusting my own voice.

To celebrate making it to a year of publishing online, I’m sharing twelve lessons that I’ve learned along the way. Let me know if any of them resonate with you.

1. Chasing numbers is a waste of time

When I started, I thought the reads, likes, follows and subscribes were a measure of the value of my words. I would publish a newsletter, then refresh my dashboard constantly to see how many email opens and views it had. The open rate, link clicks, subscribes, and un-subscribes all seemed like feedback on how interesting my piece had been.

Then I realised that knowing all of this didn’t make me write better, and it definitely didn’t make me feel good. What did bring me joy was hearing my readers’ thoughts and filling my creative cup by connecting with other writers.

That’s what being on Substack is really about for me - the community of thinkers who want a deeper experience online.

2. The right readers find you when you write your truth

It took me a while to stop worrying about how things would sound and what people would think. To start writing what was on my mind. The pieces that connected most with my readers weren’t the clever ones… they were the ones that were vulnerable and authentic. The ones where I shared stories from my life that helped readers understand my journey and my writing dreams.

Every time I wrote something personal or a bit uncomfortable, someone would message me to say, I feel that too. I realised that being true to myself is the best way to find my tribe. I’m not here to please everyone, just connect with the readers who get my words.

3. You don’t owe consistency

When I started out, every time I opened the Substack app I was pushed ‘growth hack’ advice, and one of the things I apparently had to do was set a schedule and stick to it. I used to think that if I missed a post, my readers would disappear but now I know that isn’t true.

I began with a fortnightly newsletter, but recently I moved to monthly so I can focus on writing my second novel. My readers know why I’ve changed the schedule - my creativity has a different focus right now.

4. Writing online makes you braver

Clicking publish never stops feeling scary. In fact, last year I created my Substack account in January and didn’t publish my first post until November. I still worry that I’ve made a typo, written something that no one will read or will be judged.

But every time I share something, it gets easier. I’ve realised that nothing terrible happens when someone doesn’t like your words or you make mistakes. The fear hasn’t disappeared, but it’s shrunk, and I’ve started to trust my own voice more.

5. Substack is a way to share my words even if my novel is never published

Now that my debut novel is on submission to publishing houses, I could sit at home hoping that one day someone might read my words. I have faith in my agent, but that doesn’t mean I’m not honest with myself about how difficult it is to sell a novel.

So, I started writing online and sharing my thoughts about culture, philosophy, creativity, and society. If I hadn’t pushed myself, I’d still be at 0 subscribers rather than over 300 and wouldn’t have had 17,000 article reads. These number might not sound big to you, but for me they are huge.

Buy me a coffee!

6. Notes are the place I’ve built connection

Back in the day, I used Twitter to share my educational consultancy work, mostly posting about my work as a Philosophy for Children trainer. That was before things went X-shaped and I migrated to Instagram to share book reviews and writing inspiration.

Then I found the Substack Notes feed which is the place to find interesting articles and writers to follow. It feels like sitting in a café and overhearing something interesting, then joining in the conversation. I’ve discovered a whole community of genuinely thoughtful people, and that has been one of the most inspiring parts of this journey.

7. Finding your niche takes time

When I first started, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted to write about. I had essay ideas jotted down all over the place, lists of names for interviews, and reflections to share with my readers.

But as the months have passed, I’ve found a different rhythm. I’m exploring the same themes that have always been important to me, but I’m letting my writing find its own path. Each time I sit down to write, it feels fresh, like I’m discovering what’s waiting inside to surface.

8. Writing changes your relationship with rest

Before I started writing, rest felt like a privilege I never had time for. I would fill my diary with work, family, and social commitments, and feel guilty if I spent an afternoon reading because it felt like doing nothing.

Now I’ve learned to see rest differently. The pauses to stare out the window, the long walks, and the days when I don’t even open my laptop are all part of the writing process. The more time I take for reflection, the faster my creativity grows.

9. Community starts with vulnerability

When I’m willing to be vulnerable in my writing, my readers connect with my words and some even reply with their own stories. When that happens, it feels like the biggest compliment. It means they trusted me enough to open up.

It’s strange because in life we spend so much time trying to appear as if we have it all together, but what really connects us is realising that we don’t. For me, one of the best parts of writing online is being understood, and that starts with honesty.

10. It’s okay to write slowly

Everything online tells you to create more, post frequently and build momentum. For some this suits their content, but for me, not everything worth writing happens quickly. Some pieces take months to find the right shape. Others never become finished essays but still teach me something about how I think.

I’d rather slow down when I need to and write more thoughtfully. For me, the process is just as important as the outcome. Why would I want to pressure myself with something that should be joyful?

11. You find your voice when you stop editing yourself out

Your voice, your truth, your authenticity lives in the specifics. It’s in the details of your experiences, in the emotions that swirl inside, in the doubts that make you human. And in a world full of AI, these things will never be truly replicated by an algorithm.

I’ve learned to lean into my voice and stop letting the fear of judgement make me edit myself out. Writing from this place feels braver and more fulfilling, even if it’s not always perfect.

12. Writing publicly helps you understand yourself

After a year of doing this, I can see patterns in my thinking I didn’t notice before. I’m understanding more about what I care about, what I struggle with, and how I’ve grown. Writing publicly is like holding up a mirror. It shows you what matters, and what doesn’t.

I’ve also realised how much of life I’d forget if I didn’t write it down. That’s the biggest gift Substack has given me: the time and space to understand myself.

Suppk.

Looking back, the last year has been less about numbers or growth and more about discovering what matters to me as a writer. Substack has been a place to experiment, to share and stumble. Writing publicly has helped me understand myself, my ideas, and the readers I want to reach. Most importantly, it’s reminded me that writing isn’t a race. I don’t know what the next 12 months will bring, but I do know I’ll keep showing up, learning, and sharing what only I can write.

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3. Michael Dziedzic on Unsplash

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Picture this: hundreds of aspiring teachers eagerly awaiting their introductory lecture at the Institute of Education. Each one driven to impart their love of learning and passion for their subject onto young minds.

The professor poses a question so simple that I turn to the stranger next to me and raise an eyebrow. My PGCE was going to be easier than I’d imagined.

Spoiler: It’s a question that’s still on my mind over twenty years later.

Perhaps you might also feel that the answer is obvious?

What is the purpose of education?

My initial answer was: To teach students what they need to know.

My partner nodded awkwardly, and we turned back to the front of the lecture theatre.

As the professor took feedback from brave students who’d chosen to sit in those terrifying first rows, I wished I’d put my hand up.

Not for long.

A student shared a similar answer to mine. What happened next made me glad I was hiding in the cheap seats.

A barrage of questions landed one after the other, like bullets:

What do students need to know? Is it facts, opinions, or skills? Is the goal to gain wisdom, access to higher education, to earn lots of money or something else? Who decides the curriculum? Should a change in government influence what is taught? How is this learning imparted, tested and evaluated?

And on, and on.

As I shrunk into my seat, wondering how I’d been in education for almost my whole life and never considered any of this, our attention was turned to John Dewey. Not he of the library Dewey system fame, that’s Melville.

John Dewey, Democracy and Education

Dewey, an American philosopher and educationalist, had a leading role in the reform of the education system in the first half of the 20^th Century and beyond. His belief that education should prepare people to be active participants in a democratic society through critical thinking, experiential learning and social responsibility impacted teaching around the world. (See Democracy and Education (1916) and Experience and Education (1938))

Traditional teaching models rooted in memorisation and rote learning were out.

AI and Education

As the use of generative Artificial Intelligence proliferates across sectors, I’m once again considering the purpose of education, and the role AI should play.

You might already use generative AI for parts of your job, to maintain your online presence and brand or in your personal life. Given that AI is part of our world and is here to stay, it might seem reasonable for teenagers to incorporate it as seamlessly into their learning.

For some students, parents and teachers the sole purpose of education is to ensure students achieve the highest possible grades as efficiently as possible. For this, AI can seem like the path of least resistance.

A teacher might direct students to Chat GPT for research, to generate an image, for enquiry question suggestions for an essay, or to edit prose. A student might use AI clandestinely and turn in work which was partly or wholly created by an algorithm.

However, research has shown that there is a significant difference between the brain of a mature adult, who has already built cognitive pathways and developed their critical thinking skills, and a teenager who has yet to strengthen their prefrontal neural circuitry. When teenagers use AI to short-cut a deep-thinking task, they skip developing connections, working memory and long-term recall.

If your brain has already developed these structures, then perhaps nothing is lost, but the teenage brain is very much under construction.

In almost every lesson I teach about peer pressure, risk taking, smoking, drugs, and relationships, there is a reminder that the human brain is still maturing well into our 20s. Neuroscience shows that adolescence is a critical period for synaptic pruning and the strengthening of neural pathways.

So, what will be lost if this doesn’t happen?

Before I explore this question further, let’s set aside a few common concerns about AI that student’s might not even be aware of, as they aren’t the focus of this article:

AI has been trained on the original creative work of writers, artists, composers, musicians, coders and other creatives without their consent or financial compensation

The environmental impact is huge, from electricity consumption and carbon emissions to water usage and e-waste

AI has been shown to amplify cultural stereotypes and bias, as well as reproduce sexist and racist content

Convincing information is created that is false or misleading which contributes to the spread of misinformation

Mental health and wellbeing can be negatively impacted through responses generated by AI

Memory and Critical Thinking

Anyone who’s been within a hundred yards of a classroom within the last five years will know that retrieval is one of the current buzzwords. This is how we pull knowledge from our memory. Active retrieval has been shown to be one of the most effective ways to consolidate learning. However, if AI is being relied upon to retrieve knowledge, and students are not accessing the information in their own brains then those memories become eroded.

This reduction in brain activity in regions linked to memory, executive control and attention have significant impact on learning as found in a study on students who use ChatGPT to write essays. These students show poorer memory retention, less ownership of work, and reduced critical thinking. This may be linked to the cognitive offloading which takes place when using AI (the very reasons so many mature-brained adults rely on AI for tasks).

Returning to Dewey’s education principles of critical thinking and active engagement with learning, educationalists should consider how receiving information through AI can undermine the development of these skills.

To develop critical thinking, we need to evaluate ideas, struggle with concepts and think of our own questions to explore and answer. If AI has removed this mental work, this wrestling with ambiguity, how can we ensure that young people develop these skills?

Originality and Creative Thinking

Whenever I set students a task which they are completing on a laptop or iPad where they can access AI tools, whether in the classroom or for homework, I always preface it with these personal thoughts…

In the future there will be two types of people, those who generate the original ideas that generative-AI feeds on and those who consume those ideas through AI. If you don’t develop the neural pathways in your brain now, as teenagers, you will struggle to be the original creators of the future. It is harder in the short-term but more rewarding in the long-term.

I don’t have a crystal ball, and I don’t know what the future of humanity holds, so all I can do is trust my gut on this. I also can’t control what students will choose to do, and it is difficult to know what has been created wholly or partly by generative AI, but the least I can do is give the young people I teach the knowledge to make their own informed decisions.

Research shows that creativity emerges when the brain makes connections across different networks and when teenagers outsource essays, ideas and even art to AI they miss out on the act of imaginative thinking which strengthens these networks.

If students don’t push themselves to take risks, build resilience to failure and experience the mental health benefits of creative expression, what is lost in their lives?

Final Thoughts

Education, at its best, is not about speed or shortcuts, but about the deep work of thinking, growing and becoming. Uncritical use of AI by teenagers may change the way their brains develop.

Whatever your personal thoughts are, AI already has a place within education. Perhaps now is the time for educationalists to consider the appropriate age at which cognitive offloading benefits learning.

As a society we can also consider how technology impacts our understanding of the purpose of education, and ask if the goal is to raise active and creative citizens who are capable of reasoning and questioning?

Dive into the research:

A recent MIT/Massachusetts study observed up to a 47% drop in active neural engagement among students using AI writing tools; 83% of users could not recall what they’d written versus just ~10% of non-AI peers

Reports link reduced brain activity, poorer executive control, and shorter attention spans in ChatGPT users, who also produced less original and less creative writing.

The phenomenon of digital amnesia (the “Google effect”): reliance on external digital sources leads to weaker recall and lower long-term retention

Cognitive offloading to AI frees working memory in the short term but often diminishes deep encoding and comprehension over time.

Heavy AI reliance is associated with lower analytical reasoning and diminished critical thinking, even when performance temporarily increases on certain tasks.

Exposure to AI-generated content can induce ‘design fixation’: fewer and less diverse ideas with reduced originality in generative projects

· Executive working memory, inhibitory control, attention & cognitive flexibility are shown to be compromised by excessive screen/ICT exposure during the teenage years.

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1. Miguel Henriques on Unsplash

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It was July 2024.

I’d never posted anything publicly on Instagram. I hadn’t started my Substack newsletter. I didn’t call myself a writer.

What I did have was the second draft of my debut novel (naively believing it to be the final draft) and a ticket to a writer’s conference.

Oh, the nerve of it.

Purchasing an expensive ticket. Arranging a weekend to myself. Pursuing my teenage dreams in midlife.

As the date drew closer, I joined a Zoom call for terrified attendees.

It was full of anxious writers who needed their hand held and their worries calmed whilst they were coaxed out of their shells. To help us, we had a walk through of the conference - there would be talks from famous writers, craft workshops and a feedback meeting with an agent who would have read my synopsis and first 5000 words.

When the Zoom facilitator suggested that anyone attending alone post on the conference message board to make a few connections, I rolled my eyes.

That wasn’t me. Why would I even consider ‘making friends on the internet’?

I was too busy with my IRL-life when MySpace took off. The blogging boom of the noughties had passed me by as I found my post-university feet by moving to Shoreditch and living my best life. After a brief stint of posting boring snaps and reconnecting with people who barely spoke to me at school, I gave up Facebook. For the last few years, Instagram had been the place I shared occasional holiday pictures with a handful of close friends.

That’s not to say I didn’t consume social media. Like anyone, I could happily pass an hour scrolling through other people’s lives. I occasionally posted on my work-related accounts about education or teaching news… though never anything personal, nothing that was actually about me.

Believe it or not, I’m a really private person. Prying eyes, judgement, opinions. Not for me.

But as the conference approached, I started to panic. Who would I sit with at lunch? Who would I lean on before my agent meeting?

So in a moment of desperation, I did the unthinkable (for me, anyway) and posted I’m going to the conference alone, anyone want to connect beforehand?

To my surprise, a few people responded. And then a few more.

Still uncomfortable with chatting in so public a place, I moved everyone over to a private WhatsApp group. With a few shameless keystrokes on the ‘internet’ I found that I had gone from writing in isolation to having a ready-made circle of writers to seek out at the conference.

Hmm. Maybe there was some truth to all this ‘making online friends’ business.

The first two people I spoke to at the conference, in the queue to get our badges, recognised me from the my WhatsApp profile picture. Over the next two days, we found other members of our group, with people drifting in and out of our conversations. But somehow, the creative spark between the three of us fanned itself into roaring fire. I wondered how I’d managed to write a novel without knowing anyone else grappling with the same struggles.

One of those women, on learning that I had set up a public Instagram account six months earlier but was too afraid to post anything, held my hand (literally, not figuratively) as she showed me how to upload a conference snap.

I held my breath, waiting for the world to end. Waiting for everyone I knew to tell me I couldn’t call myself a writer. That I should stop being so silly.

But guess what, dear reader, they didn’t.

Not one of my zero followers laughed.

That moment cracked the door open and I stepped into what has become one of the most satisfying creative endeavours of my life (bar writing), running my little bookstagram account. Within months, I had actual friends who I’d met through social media. Some who loved the same books as me, some who were on the same writing journey as me, some actual real-life published novelists… all of whom were normal people.

Oh the joy of having found this in midlife.

Buoyed by this small success, I considered sharing my thoughts on Substack. I counted back to March to see how many months had passed since I set up my account.

Six. Must be my lucky procrastination number.

So I wrote my first Substack newsletter. And yet again, no one told me to stay in my teaching lane nor to keep my thoughts to myself as they didn’t care what a middle-aged mum had to say.

In fact, the ‘didn’t care’ brigade seemed not to be reading my newsletter. Handy.

And just like that, I’ve passed my one-year bookstaversary on IG and will reach that milestone with my fortnightly Substack newsletter in November.

12 lessons from 12 months on Bookstagram

And what have I learnt? More than my internet-shy mind could have ever imagined…

1. You don’t need to wait for permission. No one will tap you on the shoulder and say, ‘You’re allowed to start now.’ You just begin.

2. There is real joy in finding your people. Not everyone will understand what you’re doing, but the ones who do make it all worth it.

3. Other people feel awkward too. Whether it’s starting a conversation at a conference or posting online, you’re not the only one figuring it out.

4. It’s not too late. Not for you, not for your ideas, not for your story. Midlife is as good a time as any to begin.

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I don’t keep a note of all the books I read in a year nor do I set reading goals. For me, reading has always been one of my favourite leisure activities and I can’t imagine why I’d want to introduce any order into it. As a mood reader, my taste is varied and I read nearly all genres, happily skipping between literary and commercial in the turn of a page.

Over on Instagram I share regular book reviews, creative inspo and writing updates.

If you’re looking for light, beachy reads, then this list probably isn’t for you. If you want books that get you thinking, sentences that you re-read for the sheer beauty of the prose, and ideas that will ruminate inside you - I’ve got you.

I’ve pulled together six of the best books I’ve read this year and six that I’ll be reading over the summer. I haven’t duplicated any I’ve already shared in my Brain Food newsletters, so keep reading for new recommendations.

Six of my favourite books so far this year…

The Secret Keeper by Kate Morton
Historical fiction makes up a huge chunk of my reading. I’m not fussy, anything from the last three millennia will do. Saying that, if there’s a dual-timeline WW2 novel on offer, I will most definitely read it. The Secret Keeper is my second Morton novel and my favourite so far. I was totally gripped. As in, coming home from work and reading a few chapters instead of getting the dinner on gripped.

It starts with a teenager witnessing a shocking event in the 1960s and decades later she’s still trying to make sense of what really happened. The story then jumps between wartime London in the 1940s and the present day, slowly peeling back layers of family secrets. If you like historical fiction with a mystery at the heart, and a few twists I didn’t see coming, this is the book for you.

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave
Give me a book about witches any day of the week. Give me a book with women who fight against being silenced. Give me a book by Kiran Millwood Hargrave. Give me The Mercies. Cold sea air at the edge of the arctic. Neighbours pitted against each other. Subversive love and male witch hysteria. All delicately wrapped up in Hargrave’s exquisite prose.

Set in 17th-century Norway and based on a real witch trial, I knew I’d love this book as Hargrave is an auto-buy author for me. A coastal storm wipes out the men of a village, leaving the women to fend for themselves until fear and suspicion arrive in the form of male outsiders. I’m drawn to stories where survival is both literal and emotional, especially when they explore power, gender, and superstition.

All Fours by Miranda July
As a woman of a certain age, this is the first novel I’ve read about the menopause that truly captures the tumultuous shift in energy and life-force that takes place in our 40s. I’m new to Miranda July’s writing, she’s a multi-disciplinary creative, and I now want to find out about everything she’s ever produced.

All Fours follows a sculptor who thinks she is setting out to drive from LA to New York but ends up camping out in a local motel for a few weeks, lying to her husband and son about her whereabouts. Nothing she does is pre-planned but her rocket-paced trajectory into obsession with a younger man, creation of a new home away from her real life and surreal self-discovery makes complete sense in the context of her life.

There is so much depth to the story that I’m going to need a while to ponder and process my thoughts. I didn’t read any reviews before I picked it up and having a look afterwards I wasn’t surprised to see that it divides opinion. People seem to love it or hate it. Remember, books are art and art is subjective. What speaks to me won’t necessarily speak to you, and that’s what makes us human.

Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Speaking about rockets, Atmosphere is another story about obsession. I listened to the audiobook and the narration is still reverberating within my soul, as are the characters. I’m going to be feeling the pain of this book break-up for a while. Taylor Jenkins Reid is a master at plucking those heartstrings and pulling you deep inside the characters minds.

Set in the male-dominated world of NASA in the 1980s, this novel follows a female physicist who earns a place in the first mixed-gender astronaut training programme. During her training she discovers her sexuality when she falls for a fellow female astronaut, but the homophobia of the time means they must keep their love hidden. Their romance plays out against a nail-biting mission emergency, during a spacewalk gone wrong.

Go As a River by Shelley Read
I bought this novel during a 99p stuff your Kindle sale, drawn to the cover, I didn’t even read the blurb. It must’ve been fate as this is already one of my favourite ever books. The story starts in 1940s Colorado, where a teenage girl is holding together a household of damaged men. Then she meets an Indian boy who offers her a glimpse of happiness and the tenderness of love.

What follows is a story of prejudice and loss, of silence, and survival. Told with so much beauty it hurts. If you loved Clare Leslie Hall’s Broken Country, you’ll love this too.

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The Lotus Shoes by Jane Yang
I’ve been interested in novels set in 18^th and 19^th Century China since I read Jung Chang’s Wild Swans, many years ago and I’m looking forward to reading the follow-up when it is released in September.

The Lotus Shoes follows the intertwined lives of two women in 19th-century China who come from the two extremes of society. One has been sold into child slavery by her mother, the other is her mistress who sees her slave as nothing more than a thing to service her needs. When fate upends their worlds, each is humbled in their own way and must claw their way back through grit and determination. Only one can escape into a better life.

Bonus Book - My current read!

Human Acts by Han Kang

I’m currently reading the Nobel Prize for Literature winning Human Acts as a buddy-read with the wonderful Bookstagrammer @WhatIThinkAboutThisBook and it is my first novel by this author. I know from reviews of her other books that she isn’t afraid to explore the most unsettling corners of the human experience. Human Acts begins with the 1980 Gwangju Uprising in South Korea and follows the reverberations of a young boy’s death across time and memory. I’m bracing myself for something harrowing yet necessary. There’s something about the way Kang writes that makes this painful story feel like I’m witnessing history.

Six books I’ll be reading over the summer…

The Spoiled Heart by Sunjeev Sahota

Sunjeev Sahota’s China Room was one of my debut novel comparison titles (comps) in my query letter last year, as I searched for a literary agent. He’s also one of the authors who inspired me to write and I recommend you read all of his backlist.

The Spoiled Heart has themes of DEI union activism, the class divide, identity and gender politics. The story centres on Nayan, who lost his family in a possibly racially motivated fire 20-years ago, a tragedy which colours his present. As he campaigns to become General Secretary of his union, he finds himself up against a wealthy woman of Indian descent whilst being emotionally drawn to a mysterious white woman who gets tongues gossiping.

North Woods by Daniel Mason

This novel has been waiting patiently on my Kindle for six months, and it was the unique premise that drew me in. Mason traces the history of a single house in the New England woods over centuries, from colonial times to the present. As different inhabitants come and go, the echoes of their lives linger in the land and the walls. I’m curious to see how Mason connects the reader through time and space with a cast of changing characters.

Wandering Stars by Tommy Orange

I love a sweeping intergenerational saga, especially when it draws me into a world I’m less familiar with. Building on the world Orange created in There There, this novel follows two families of Native Americans from the Sand Creek Massacre in 1864 through colonial atrocities and cultural erasure, right up to the present day. For me, fiction that can both immerse me in unfamiliar worlds and teach me what I should know is always a winner.

A Thread of Light by Neema Shah

After enjoying Kololo Hill, which traces the fate of a family of Ugandan Indians who find themselves refugees in England, I’ve been looking forward to Shah’s second novel (which has just been published). A Thread of Light explores the contributions made by Indians who were based in England during the Second World War, as well as the freedom fighters working to free India from colonialism. The themes of sacrifice and the search for belonging amongst immigrants are ones I always enjoy reading about.

Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler

I don’t read as much dystopian fiction as I used to, but I saw this recommended somewhere and was intrigued. Set in a near-future America ravaged by climate disaster and societal collapse, a teenager is forced to flee her destroyed community. She journeys through chaos and danger, gathering followers along the way. Although Butler wrote the novel in 1991 and set it in an imagined 2024, its themes of inequality and environmental breakdown feel prophetic.

A Thousand Threads by Neneh Cherry

What can I say that hasn’t already been said before about Neneh Cherry? She’s an icon from my childhood who has maintained her mystique and allure, and I just want to know more about her. From her early days of moving to London at 15, living in a squat and joining The Slits, to the award-winning years post-Buffalo Stance. She’s such a creative soul, and she’s done it all without losing her deep-rooted love for family and friends. This one has been recommended to me by multiple people and I think it will be my favourite non-fiction read this year.

A few more of my reading recommendations and reviews:

Mongrel by Hanako Footman

Brotherless Night by V.V.Ganeshananthan

The Daughters of Madurai by Rajasree Variyar

To Paradise by Hanya Yanagihara

Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart

James by Percival Everett

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Every year, once end of year exams are finished, I bring this question into my classroom and it keeps us puzzling for three lessons. And every year, someone sits back in their chair, frowns and says, ‘Wait… my brain actually hurts.’

That’s when I know we’re onto something interesting.

The thought experiment I use is simple, almost too simple…

Theseus sails a great ship, lets imagine it’s called The Ship of Theseus.

Over time, through impossible adventures and catastrophic storms, pieces of the ship need to be replaced. A few planks, a nail, the rudder, the sail...

Piece by piece, one item after another, the ship is kept seaworthy by replacing each part.

By the time the ship returns to port, and Theseus and his crew disembark in a blaze of glory, none of the original parts remain.

So, I ask you as I ask the students, is it the same ship? Is it still The Ship of Theseus?

If you want to philosophise with me, take a moment to consider your own thoughts to each question I pose before reading on.

Perhaps you think that it is clearly the same ship because it has the same name.

Or that there is a sense of continuity to the ship. Yes, every piece has been replaced, but it happened over a period of time, and this means The Ship of Theseus retains its original identity.

Maybe you feel that the presence of Theseus and his crew give the ship it’s purpose and they have memories and experiences bound up in this ship. After all, the crew were never replaced.

If you believe it is not the same ship. Just a replica, then you may argue that once a certain number of parts were replaced then it ceased to be The Ship of Theseus. It might be 50% or 80%.

Or there could be a particular component of the ship which you believe embodies the values and identity such as the sail or the figurehead. Once it was replaced, it became a different ship.

At this point, you might be feeling comfortable in your reasoning. Philosophers love prodding this out of you.

Imagine this. A scavenger pirate tails The Ship of Theseus, buys every discarded part, repairs it and builds an entirely new ship. It looks identical to the original ship, in fact it is made from all of the original parts.

Which ship is the real Ship of Theseus now?

What if the pirate managed to bribe the original crew to man his vessel. Is it the real ship now?

Don’t worry, no more maritime talk…

This thought experiment is just a way to open a door in your mind to some interesting ideas about our own sense of identity.

From ships to selves

We change all the time. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Most of the cells in your body are replaced every seven years. Your ideas, your habits, your tastes, and your values shift over time.

But somehow, you still feel like you, don’t you?

So, what is it that gives us our identity?

Some philosophers, like John Locke, believed that personal identity is all about memory. You’re the same person if you can remember being that person.

But what happens if you forget? Are you no longer you? Does memory alone really explain everything?

Others suggest that identity is more like a story. Something that’s not fixed, but unfolding. In this view, we are an ongoing narrative. You’re not the same as your five-year-old self but that person is still part of your story.

And then there’s the view that continuity is key. It’s not about any one piece (like a memory or a body part), but the unbroken chain of change with each step connecting to the one before it, like links in a chain.

Which view makes the most sense to you?

If you are philosophising with me, here are a few more questions to think about…

• If you have amnesia, are you still the same person? Is this still true if you also lose all your friends and family, alongside your memories?

• If a clone was made of you with all your memories, would that be you?

• If your mind could be uploaded to a computer, is that you?

• What parts of you are essential for you to still be you?

  

So Why Does It Matter?

Philosophy doesn’t always offer clear and easy answers. What it does offer are better questions.

The Ship of Theseus challenges us to question what we take for granted about identity… of people, of things, of societies. And it nudges us to explore what changes over time and what remains.

So let me leave you with a few more questions to chew on:

• What makes someone the same person over time?

• Can identity exist without memory?

• Is identity something we have, or something we build?

• And when everything changes, what’s left of us?

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Long before literary agent and freelance editor Louise Buckley from HSLA offered me representation, I followed her on social media and had seen from her profile and posts that she was a busy mum who lived with a hidden disability.

I was also intrigued, as a teacher myself, by her journey from bookshelves to blackboard and back again. Particularly as I was dreaming of bouncing from the classroom into the world of publishing with my debut novel.

In this interview, Louise unfurls her roadmap from teenager to agent. Alongside the shining stars of working for a Big 5 publishing house and being involved with bestsellers, there is redundancy, a career pivot from agenting forced by a terrible life curve-ball and her MS diagnosis.

Q- Describe your journey from teenager to literary agent.

As a teenager, I wanted to be a teacher but over time it became my backup option as I realised what I really wanted was to work with books.

I didn’t have a clear career plan when I went to university, but I knew I didn’t want to be a librarian, and I didn’t want to go straight into teaching. I wanted to study what I loved so I chose English Literature. While it isn’t the only route, it is a common pathway for people entering publishing.

Even after finishing university, I still didn’t know what I wanted to do. My dad had had an awful experience as a teacher, which put me off that road. So, I applied to do a Master’s in Creative Writing. Partly because I had a little money I’d been left and partly because it would give me a little more time to figure things out.

The MA ended up being useful. It helped develop my writing skills, which are essential in publishing, and gave me the space to think about my career.

From that point on, I got serious. I created a mega spreadsheet and applied for every publishing internship I could find.

As I’m not from a particularly privileged background, I couldn’t afford to work for free for very long. I prioritised internships which at least reimbursed travel expenses. I ended up at Walker Books (children’s publishing), did three weeks there and absolutely loved it.

As I applied for other publishing roles, I landed a bookselling job at Waterstones in Covent Garden, which was a wonderful experience. Being surrounded by books, interacting with readers, serving celebrities.

The shop floor opened my eyes to the fact that commercial books were the biggest seller, and I began to question my belief from uni that only literary fiction was ‘good’. It also gave me a broader understanding of the industry - so valuable later on, especially in interviews.

Eventually, I got an editorial assistant role working for DK who produced travel guidebooks, but people switched from buying physical guidebooks to using the internet and before I knew it, I was made redundant.

Such a huge blow.

I remember leaving early, walking to London Bridge to meet my now husband, and just sobbing. I thought my publishing career was over.

I knew how competitive the industry was. I’d seen jobs with over 300 applicants.

But, I was still young enough to apply for entry-level jobs and eventually, all my experience (the internship, Waterstones, DK) helped me land an interview at Pan Macmillan. I later found out my open-mindedness and willingness to learn about sci-fi and fantasy is what got me the job.

That job laid the groundwork for everything I do now as an agent. I stayed there for five years and learned so much. The role cemented my future in publishing.

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Q: What are you proudest of in your career so far?

There are a few books I can point to which I know wouldn’t have had the same success if I hadn’t been part of their journey and it’s deeply satisfying. Publishing is subjective, and while someone else might have picked up those books, they also might not have.

As an agent, a lot is out of your hands, but if I hadn’t taken a chance on an author in the first place, their book might never have found its way into the world. That’s the real privilege of working in publishing, being part of a moment where something meaningful begins.

Although I’ve had authors I’ve championed sell at auction in the UK or go on to be bestsellers in the US, I’m proud of all the books and authors I’ve backed, regardless of how big and visible their success is.

Q: Did you feel the pressure of expectation after being made redundant so early in your publishing career?

I’ve been lucky my parents never put any expectations on me or my brother. If anything, they were always laid-back and supportive, just wanting us to be happy doing what we loved. The pressure came from me. Attending a highly-selective girls grammar school had more of an impact than I realised at the time.

I barely scraped through the 11+ entrance exam, and when you’re repeatedly told by teachers that you’re a ‘B student, not an A student’ you internalise it. Labels stick. You look around and think, ‘I’m not like them. I’m not top of the class. I’m just lucky to be here.’ It gave me a real sense that I had something to prove.

And in a way, that internal pressure to prove something worked. Insecurity made me determined and fiercely motivated in my twenties. I had to climb the ladder, had to get promoted, had to make my first acquisition before someone else did.

But now, I’m older and I’ve taken that pressure off myself. I’m a parent. I live with MS. I just don’t have that same need to prove myself. I can still be excellent at my job without burning out trying to be the best. I work hard, but I don’t tie my worth to external achievement anymore.

Health and balance come first now. I’m proud of this shift.

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Q: How did the twists and turns in your life roadmap impact your career?

After the birth of my second child, I took the decision to leave agenting to care for my son as he was born with some medical challenges. By the time he turned two, he was finally doing better but I didn’t realise at the time what a huge emotional, mental, and physical toll it had taken on me. Looking back, I now see how stress laid the groundwork for the development of my autoimmune disease.

Teaching had always been my back-up plan, so I enrolled in an on-the-job teacher training programme. After everything we’d been through as a family, I went from one extremely stressful situation into another. I knew teaching would be tough, but I wasn’t prepared for how awful that year would be.

As a trainee teacher I was vulnerable and needed support, but instead the headteacher took a dislike to me and it was hugely traumatic. After an official investigation which involved other trainees, the headteacher left the profession.

At the end of my training year, on a family holiday to York, I woke up to the left side of my body feeling like it was on fire. Not painful, exactly, but burning in a way which felt wrong. I ignored it, hoped it was nothing, and tried to enjoy the rest of the trip.

But when we got home to Hastings, I took my kids into the sea and noticed I couldn’t feel my left leg properly. Not like I could my right. With a family history of MS, the GP made a link but couldn’t suggest a diagnosis from a single episode.

So, I pushed it to the back of my mind.

I started my first proper teaching job in September, and I was soon exhausted. There was no shared planning, no curriculum on the system, no one to mentor me in the way I should have been mentored. The children had very high needs, and I was trying to hold it all together.

Then the same burning sensation started up in my left arm and shoulder. It was deeply worrying, especially as I’m left-handed. But this time I knew: two distinct flare-ups, two different areas of the body. Enough for an MS diagnosis.

The neurologist agreed to do a lumbar puncture. It was horrible, but it confirmed what I feared: the markers of MS were present in my spinal fluid. Later, MRIs confirmed the disease had been developing since I gave birth to my son. Which makes sense, as that was when everything began to shift for me, physically and emotionally.

I knew I’d made a terrible mistake with my career. I never should have left publishing. I should have just taken a sabbatical, but I thought, ‘Well, I’ve made the decision now. I must stick it out.’

It was a hard year. Teaching while dealing with a flare-up on my arm was physically draining. I wasn’t well supported in my school, which made the whole experience incredibly stressful.

All I could think about was wanting to return to publishing, where things felt more stable, where the people were nicer, and where I could have a better work-life balance.

Q: So, you took the difficult decision to leave teaching and move back into publishing?

As soon as I made the decision to leave teaching, everything eased up. I still get occasional flare-ups now, but they're much less severe, like a spot on my elbow that burns for five minutes and goes away.

Thankfully, it doesn’t have a major impact on my daily life. I’m very fortunate, considering what I’ve seen other people go through with MS, especially my mum.

I could focus on getting back to work in publishing where I felt more supported. I just wanted to return to something familiar, something that would allow me to focus on my life outside of work and be around my family more.

Q: How did you feel, knowing your teaching dream had ended in this way?

I had a huge amount of sadness. On the one hand, a weight had lifted off my shoulders. I didn’t need to keep pushing myself into something causing so much stress. But at the same time, there was still a nagging feeling of failure. I had committed to this path, and it didn’t work out the way I had hoped.

I had changed my life to become a teacher, and the actual teaching, I enjoyed. I loved working with the children, and know I made a difference in their lives, especially working in such poor communities. From a welfare perspective, I felt like I made a big impact. So, when I realised it wasn’t going to work out, it felt like a huge loss.

I also went through about eight months of therapy, which was brilliant. I’d recommend it to anyone. I initially went in to talk through and come to terms with my diagnosis, but as I started therapy in January of my second year of teaching, it also helped me process my awful experience as a teacher and come to terms with the realisation I needed to leave.

A difficult decision, but ultimately the right one for me. I needed to listen to my body, my health, and my mental well-being, and move on.

Q: Perhaps that sadness was grief for a version of yourself you will never be?

Absolutely. As a teenager, I had this vision teaching would be my path. And when I had to leave, I grieved that version of myself, the version who had imagined a different future.

It's hard to admit to yourself, but it’s part of growing older. You learn there are versions of yourself which will never exist, or at least not the way you imagined. And I had to come to terms with that.

I felt the universe nudge me back to publishing. When I reframed it as this in my mind, the transition became easier. So, within the sadness and grief, there was a sense of peace in returning to what I was originally meant to do. It’s a process of accepting life doesn’t always follow the path we expect, but sometimes, that’s okay.

Q: What lessons have you learnt on your journey so far?

You shouldn’t compare yourself to other people. I’ve learned my version of success is much more centred around living a happy, fulfilled life than about achieving societal expectations.

We often think success is about climbing some ladder or meeting some standard set by other people, but I’ve found real success for me is more about contentment and peace of mind.

I’ve also learnt the importance of perseverance. When you experience setbacks, it doesn’t mean those doors are closed to you forever. It’s important to keep going. When I started out in my career, I could’ve easily just applied for less competitive jobs than publishing, something I knew I’d get. But I didn’t. I had enough confidence in myself to know I had a wealth of experience to draw from, and it was worth giving it a go. Even when things were tough, I kept pushing forwards.

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Read about my author journey to signing with Louise and learn my Query Stats and Hacks