Are We Buying Books to Read Them... or Just Collecting Them?

  I have books I haven't read.

Quite a lot of books I haven't read, actually.

Some have been sitting on my shelves for so long that I'm beginning to think they've acquired squatters' rights.

Every so often I look at them and think:

I really must read that.

Then I buy another book.

This has led me to an uncomfortable question.

Do I actually buy books to read them, or have I accidentally started collecting them?

Because I'm beginning to suspect these are two entirely different hobbies.

The TBR Shelf Was Supposed to Be Temporary

TBR, if you've somehow managed to avoid this particular piece of bookish terminology, means:

To Be Read.

Simple enough.

You buy a book you want to read, put it on the TBR shelf, read it and move it onto your proper bookshelf.

That was presumably the original idea.

My TBR shelf, however, appears to operate more like a long-term storage facility.

Books arrive.

Books settle in.

Books make friends.

Books watch newer books arrive and get read before them.

Some of them must be furious.

There's probably a support group happening after I've gone to bed.

"She bought me in 2022."

"That's nothing. I've been here since 2019."

"Did you see her come home with another Richard Osman?"

Outrage.

Why Do We Keep Buying Them?

Because the book I want to read next month and the book I want to read right now aren't necessarily the same thing.

I'll be in a bookshop and see a huge historical novel.

"Oh, that looks fabulous."

Buy it.

Two weeks later I'm ready for my next book.

Do I choose the enormous historical novel?

No.

Apparently I now want a murder mystery.

So I buy one.

Then somebody recommends a brilliant thriller.

Buy that.

Then BookBub sends me something for 99p.

Well, obviously.

Then I see a book on Instagram approximately fourteen times and eventually decide the universe is clearly instructing me to purchase it.

Suddenly the historical novel is six books deep in the queue wondering what happened.

Special Editions Have Made Everything Worse

This is where I think we've stopped pretending it's entirely about reading.

Sprayed edges.

Foil covers.

Exclusive artwork.

Signed editions.

Collector's editions.

Special endpapers.

Hardbacks so beautiful you almost don't want to open them because you might crease something.

Bookshops and publishers know exactly what they're doing.

You already own the book.

But do you own the midnight-blue hardback with gold sprayed edges and an exclusive illustration of the main characters?

No.

You do not.

Well, obviously you need another copy.

Do you?

Absolutely not.

Do you want it?

That's an entirely different question.

Then There's the Kindle Problem

At least physical books have the decency to take up space.

Eventually a bookshelf starts groaning and you receive a visual warning that perhaps things have gone too far.

Kindle books have no such restraint.

You click.

Done.

Another one.

Click.

99p?

Click.

Free?

CLICK.

There is no pile getting taller.

No shelf collapsing.

No family member asking where you're planning to put another 37 books.

They're simply absorbed quietly into the device.

I dread to think how many unread books are lurking on people's Kindles.

Actually, don't look.

Nothing good can come from that information.

Is Having a Huge TBR Really a Problem?

I'm going to say no.

Mostly because I don't want to be a hypocrite.

But also because I rather like having unread books around.

There's something comforting about looking at a shelf and knowing there are stories waiting there that I haven't discovered yet.

It's a little private library.

Fancy something funny?

There's one.

Want a murder?

Several options.

Need to disappear into Tudor England for three days?

Upper shelf, second from the left.

Want a romance?

Got you covered.

It's essentially Netflix without spending forty minutes scrolling through the menu before watching the same programme you've already seen six times.

The only problem comes when the TBR stops feeling exciting and starts feeling like homework.

I should read that.

I need to get through these.

I can't buy another book until I've read ten of these.

No.

Absolutely not.

Books are supposed to be enjoyable.

I'm not putting myself on a reading performance improvement plan.

What About Unhauling Books?

This is another word the internet taught me.

Unhauling.

Basically, going through your shelves and getting rid of books you no longer want.

This sounds sensible.

I have attempted it.

You pick up a book you bought eight years ago and have never read.

"Am I ever actually going to read this?"

No.

Put it in the charity-shop pile.

Then five minutes later:

"But what if I suddenly want to read it?"

Back on the shelf.

Repeat approximately 43 times.

Eventually I have managed to remove three books and somehow feel as though I've achieved something significant.

Worse still, I usually take the unwanted books to a charity shop.

Which contains books.

You can see where this is going.

I donate three.

I come home with five.

This is not decluttering.

It's an exchange programme.

Perhaps Reading and Collecting Books ARE Different Hobbies

I think I've finally accepted this.

I enjoy reading books.

But I also enjoy having books.

I like bookshelves.

I like looking at covers.

I like wandering around bookshops.

I like discovering an old edition of something.

I like knowing that if I suddenly decide at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night that I desperately need to read a Victorian ghost story, there's probably one somewhere in the house.

Some people collect vinyl records.

Some collect stamps.

Some collect shoes.

Book people collect imaginary lives printed on bits of paper and then insist every single one is absolutely necessary.

Seems reasonable to me.

So Am I Going to Stop Buying Books Until I've Read My TBR?

Hahahahahaha.

No.

I've tried the book-buying ban.

It usually goes something like this:

Day One: I have plenty of books. I don't need any more.

Day Three: Look at me being responsible.

Day Five: Technically, a 99p ebook doesn't count.

Day Seven: Library books definitely don't count because I haven't bought them.

Day Nine: This one is reduced from £9.99 to £4.99, so really I've saved £5.

Day Twelve: Book-buying ban quietly abandoned.

I've decided there are worse things I could spend money on.

Will I read every book I own?

Probably not.

Will I continue looking at my unread shelves while simultaneously browsing for new books?

Almost certainly.

And perhaps that's fine.

Because I've realised something important.

I don't have a TBR pile.

I have my own personal library.

That sounds much more respectable.

Book Review: The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

 

★★★★★ - Five Stars

I knew how this book ended before I started it.

I mean, it's Achilles.

We've had a couple of thousand years to prepare ourselves.

So I went into The Song of Achilles feeling reasonably confident that knowing what was coming would protect me from becoming too emotionally involved.

This was optimistic.

By the end I was sitting there thinking:

Well, that was devastating.

Thanks very much, Madeline Miller.

The Song of Achilles retells part of the story of the Iliad, but instead of placing the famous Greek warrior at the centre of the narration, Miller gives the story to Patroclus.

Patroclus is an awkward young prince who, after a terrible incident, is exiled from his father's kingdom and sent to live at the court of King Peleus.

There he meets Peleus's son.

Achilles.

Beautiful, talented, confident Achilles, who seems destined for greatness before either of them is old enough to understand exactly what greatness might cost.

Their friendship gradually becomes something much deeper, and when the Greeks sail for Troy, Patroclus follows Achilles into a war that prophecy has already warned may destroy him.

I expected epic battles.

Gods.

Heroes.

Trojan horses.

Men standing around looking magnificent while somebody dramatically announced a prophecy.

And all of that world is there.

But this is really a love story.

And it is such a beautifully written one.

Patroclus Completely Won Me Over

At first, I wasn't sure about him.

He's nothing like Achilles.

He isn't a great warrior. He isn't particularly brave. He isn't the sort of man anyone is going to compose heroic songs about.

He's simply Patroclus.

And that's exactly why he works.

We're looking at Achilles through the eyes of somebody who doesn't see a legend.

He sees the boy.

The friend.

The man he loves.

It means that when everyone else starts talking about Achilles's destiny and glory, Patroclus understands what those grand words actually mean.

They mean danger.

They mean war.

And eventually, they mean loss.

That's what I found so powerful about the book.

We already know Achilles is supposed to become one of the greatest warriors in Greek mythology.

Patroclus would rather have Achilles.

And Then There's Achilles

Oh, Achilles.

There were moments when I adored him.

There were moments when I wanted to throw something at him.

He's charismatic and extraordinary, but Miller doesn't make him perfect.

Far from it.

Achilles knows he's exceptional.

Everyone has been telling him so since childhood.

His mother is a goddess. He has a prophecy hanging over him. He is destined to become famous.

That's probably not an ideal recipe for modesty.

As the novel moves towards Troy, you begin to see how dangerous his pride can become.

And this is where I started shouting at the book.

"Achilles, don't."

Achilles does.

"ACHILLES."

Achilles continues doing it.

Greek mythology would have been considerably shorter if these people had occasionally listened to sensible advice.

I Loved the Mythology

I think one of the reasons this book has become so popular is that you don't need to know much about Greek mythology before reading it.

If you've read the Iliad, you'll recognise an enormous amount.

If your entire knowledge of Troy comes from vaguely remembering Brad Pitt running around without many clothes on, you'll still be fine.

Miller makes the mythology accessible without making it feel silly.

The gods are real.

Prophecies matter.

Centaur teachers exist.

A goddess can emerge from the sea and make everybody extremely uncomfortable.

But none of it feels strange within the world of the novel.

Thetis, Achilles's immortal mother, is particularly memorable.

I was frightened of her and she wasn't even angry with me.

It Is Quite a Slow Book

This won't work for everybody.

The first half takes its time.

We spend a lot of pages with Patroclus and Achilles growing up, training and gradually becoming closer.

Even when they reach Troy, this isn't suddenly transformed into an action novel.

There are battles, certainly, but Miller is far more interested in the people involved than in giving us page after page of swords going through various unfortunate Trojans.

I liked that.

But if you're expecting Gladiator: Ancient Greece Edition, you may wonder when everyone is going to get on with it.

For me, the slower beginning is what makes the ending work.

You've spent so much time with these two.

You know them.

And because you know them, you care what happens.

Which is unfortunate.

Because...

Well.

Achilles.

Knowing the Ending Makes It Worse

This was the surprise.

I thought knowing the mythology would reduce the tension.

Instead, it created it.

You know something terrible is waiting.

Every happy moment has this little shadow behind it.

Every decision matters because you know where the road eventually leads.

There were several moments when I desperately wanted Miller to rewrite the myth.

Just this once.

Let everybody pack up and go home.

Helen can sort herself out.

Troy will be fine.

Achilles and Patroclus can get a little cottage somewhere.

Perhaps grow olives.

Unfortunately, Madeline Miller did not consult me.

And That Ending...

No spoilers.

Although I'm not entirely sure something can count as a spoiler when Homer got there first.

Still.

I'm saying nothing.

What I will say is that the final pages were beautiful.

Not flashy.

Not overdone.

Just quietly, horribly effective.

The Song of Achilles has become one of those books that seems to have found an entirely new audience years after it was first published, particularly through online reading communities. It has accumulated more than two million Goodreads ratings, with readers frequently praising Miller's prose and the emotional relationship between Achilles and Patroclus.

And yes.

This time I agree with the hype.

Completely.

I finished it, put it down and decided I needed something cheerful next.

Preferably involving absolutely no prophecies.

No wars.

No Greek heroes.

And definitely nobody called Achilles.

Blind Date with a Book: Brilliant Idea or a Very Expensive Way to Buy Something You Hate?

 I keep seeing Blind Date with a Book parcels everywhere.

Bookshops have them. Etsy is full of them. They appear on Instagram looking ridiculously pretty, usually wrapped in brown paper with string, little clues written on the front and perhaps a bookmark or a teabag tucked inside.

And I have to admit...

I love the idea.

But I also have questions.

Because apparently I'm supposed to hand over money for a book while agreeing not to know which book I'm buying.

This goes against every instinct I possess.

I read the blurb.

I look at the cover.

I check the genre.

Sometimes I read reviews.

Sometimes I put it down, pick it back up, wander around the shop for twenty minutes and then buy something completely different.

A Blind Date with a Book takes all of that away.

And that's rather the point.

What Exactly Is a Blind Date with a Book?

The basic idea is wonderfully simple.

A bookseller takes a book and wraps it so you can't see the title, author or cover. Instead, you're given a few clues.

Something like:

Enemies to lovers • grumpy hero • Scottish castle • family secrets • slow burn

You decide whether those clues tempt you enough to take the risk.

Then you buy it.

And you don't discover what you've actually bought until you unwrap it.

The idea appears to have originated with Elizabeth's Bookshops in Australia, where booksellers began wrapping recommendations in brown paper and writing clues on the outside to encourage customers to try books they might otherwise overlook.

It's essentially a bookseller saying:

Trust me.

Which is either charming or terrifying depending upon how particular you are about books.

Why Do I Like the Idea So Much?

Because covers influence me.

There.

I'm shallow.

We all say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover while standing in bookshops doing precisely that.

I've undoubtedly missed some wonderful books because the cover didn't appeal to me.

I've also bought some absolute rubbish because the cover was gorgeous.

Blind Date with a Book removes that problem.

You aren't choosing the pretty one.

You're choosing the story.

I really like that.

It also brings back something we've lost slightly through online shopping: surprise.

Amazon knows what I've bought.

My Kindle knows what I've read.

Algorithms know what people who bought this also bought.

Everything is constantly trying to predict what I'll like next.

Sometimes I don't want to be predicted.

Give me the mysterious brown parcel.

But There Is a Problem

What happens if I already own it?

This would be my biggest concern.

Imagine spending £15 or £20, getting ridiculously excited, unwrapping your mystery parcel and discovering...

Oh.

I've got that.

Some of the better Blind Date companies have obviously realised this.

For example, Bookish Blindside allows customers to share their Goodreads information and says it tracks books previously sent to avoid duplicates. It also chooses according to favourite genres, previous reads and preferred tropes rather than simply pulling a random novel off a shelf.

That's much more appealing to me.

If you're going to choose a book for me, I want you to know something about what I actually read.

Otherwise it's less Blind Date with a Book and more Lucky Dip from the Stockroom.

So Who Does Good Ones in the UK?

I had a nose around because there are loads of companies doing them now, and they're definitely not all offering the same thing.

One of the more interesting options I found was Book-ish. Their Blind Date with a Book currently costs £12 and is properly old-school: brown paper, no title or cover, and handwritten clues. You choose a category and take your chances.

That appeals to me if you want the actual blind date experience rather than something heavily personalised.

Then there's The Book Box, which currently offers Blind Dates from £10.99. This one gives you a surprisingly broad choice of genres, including cosy mystery, true crime, fantasy, romance, contemporary fiction, classics, sci-fi and even philosophy. The books are brand new and you choose from teaser descriptions before ordering.

I quite like that compromise.

You still don't know what you're getting.

But you're not going in completely blind.

Dryad Books is another interesting one, particularly for fantasy readers. You choose paperback or hardback and a genre, and they'll also accept your Goodreads or StoryGraph information to help avoid sending something you've already read. Their mystery books currently start at £9.99.

And if you want the whole treat myself because apparently surviving Tuesday deserves a present experience, there are companies that add extras.

GIGI & Co., for example, includes a new mystery book alongside a bookmark, reading tracker, drink, stickers and other bookish bits. You can also send them your Goodreads or details of books you've already read.

Tea.

Book.

Surprises.

I can see how this becomes a problem.

What About Subscriptions?

This is where things become even more dangerous.

Because apparently buying one mystery book isn't enough.

You can arrange for somebody to send you one every month.

The Blind Date Bookshop has monthly subscriptions starting at £10 including postage, with larger boxes containing multiple books and bookish extras. You give them your reading preferences beforehand, although their subscriptions have a minimum three-month term.

Tea Leaves & Reads also offers both a book-only Blind Date subscription and a larger book-box version. They use a questionnaire to find out about your reading preferences, which I think is a particularly good idea.

And The Mysterious Bookcase lets you provide your Goodreads account or a list of books you've already read. Their mystery books are gently used rather than new, which could be a nice option if you like the idea of giving preloved books another home.

New or Preloved?

This is something I'd definitely check before ordering.

Not every Blind Date with a Book contains a brand-new book.

And personally, I don't think there's anything wrong with that.

In fact, I rather like the idea of a preloved version if the price reflects it.

Goomoo, for example, currently offers a preloved mystery book from £4, with a teabag and bookmark included.

Four pounds?

Now we're talking.

At that price, I'd happily take a chance on something I'd never normally choose.

But if I'm paying £15–£20, I'd want to know whether I'm getting a new book, a used book or a whole box of extras before ordering.

Mystery book?

Yes.

Mystery regarding what I've actually paid for?

No.

Would I Buy One?

Yes.

But I'd choose carefully.

I think I'd want enough control to specify genres I absolutely don't want, and I'd favour a company that lets me provide my Goodreads or reading history.

Because there is surprise...

And then there is somebody sending me Book Four of a seventeen-book fantasy series involving shape-shifting dragons when I've never read Books One to Three.

I have limits.

As a gift, though, I think they're brilliant.

There's something much more exciting about receiving a beautifully wrapped mystery book than simply being handed a paperback you've already seen.

And for somebody who reads a lot, it might push them towards a book they'd never have chosen for themselves.

Which is really the whole point.

We spend so much time deciding what we like that perhaps occasionally it wouldn't hurt to let somebody else choose.

Worst-case scenario?

You hate it.

Best-case scenario?

You unwrap a book you've never heard of, start reading...

...and accidentally find a new favourite.

I think that's worth risking one bad date.

Book Review: Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens

 

★★★★☆ - Four Stars

I avoided this book for ages.

Not because I thought I wouldn't like it.

Because everybody else seemed to love it.

There comes a point with massively hyped books when I become slightly suspicious. You see them in every bookshop. Everyone in your reading group has read them. Your neighbour has read them. Somebody you haven't spoken to since 2009 suddenly appears on Facebook to announce they've read them.

Eventually, curiosity wins.

So I finally met the Marsh Girl.

And yes.

I understand what all the fuss was about.

Where the Crawdads Sing takes us to the marshlands of North Carolina, where Kya Clark grows up almost entirely alone. One by one, the members of her family leave until the marsh becomes both her home and her teacher. The people in nearby Barkley Cove know about Kya, but they don't really know her. To them, she's simply the strange, barefoot ‘Marsh Girl’ who lives beyond respectable society.

Then, in 1969, local golden boy Chase Andrews is found dead.

And everyone knows exactly who they want to blame.

What surprised me was how slowly this book unfolds.

I had somehow got it into my head that Where the Crawdads Sing was primarily a murder mystery.

It isn't.

There is a murder mystery, and it becomes increasingly important, but much of the novel is Kya's story: a lonely little girl growing into a fiercely independent young woman while surrounded by people who have already decided what sort of person she is.

Some readers have found that pace frustrating, particularly the long passages devoted to the marsh and its wildlife. That's one of the recurring criticisms amongst the otherwise enormously positive reader response.

I can understand it.

There is a lot of nature.

Birds.

Feathers.

Shells.

Insects.

Water.

Mud.

More birds.

If you're waiting impatiently for someone to get on with solving the murder, you may occasionally find yourself wondering why you're learning quite so much about marsh ecology.

But I rather liked it.

The marsh doesn't feel like scenery that's been placed behind the characters. It feels alive. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes dangerous and frequently indifferent to whatever the humans happen to be doing.

It is also the one thing that never abandons Kya.

And Kya is what made the book work for me.

Her childhood is heartbreaking, although there were moments when I had to stretch my belief rather further than I would normally like. A very young child surviving virtually alone for years, earning money, feeding herself and somehow avoiding the authorities requires a fairly generous suspension of disbelief.

I gave it.

Mostly.

Because emotionally, I believed in her.

Every time Kya allows somebody a little closer, you know how much it costs her. She desperately wants human connection but has learnt from childhood that people leave.

So when Tate enters her life and begins teaching her to read, it matters.

When Chase takes an interest in her, that matters too.

And when people hurt her...

Well.

I became rather protective of the Marsh Girl.

The romance elements were actually less interesting to me than Kya herself. What I loved was watching this supposedly uneducated and worthless girl reveal just how intelligent and observant she really is.

Everyone has underestimated her.

Repeatedly.

That was tremendously satisfying.

Then the murder investigation starts tightening around her.

The second half moved much faster for me, particularly once the courtroom scenes began. Suddenly all those quieter chapters about Kya's isolation matter because we understand precisely how the town sees her.

Is she being judged on the evidence?

Or because she is the Marsh Girl?

I had opinions.

Quite loud ones.

The novel has certainly connected with readers. It currently has a Goodreads average of around 4.37 stars from more than 3.7 million ratings, although the reviews also show a sizeable minority who found the story implausible or the descriptive prose too slow.

And I think that's fair.

There are things here that don't bear too much examination. There were coincidences I questioned and moments when Kya's abilities seemed almost too convenient.

But then I'd find myself back in the marsh with her and stop caring quite so much.

And the ending?

I'm saying nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I will merely say that I closed the book, stared at it for several seconds and then went:

"Oh."

Followed shortly afterwards by:

"OH."

Which is always preferable to finishing a mystery and thinking, Well, that was obvious.

Was Where the Crawdads Sing perfect?

No.

Did I believe every single thing that happened?

Also no.

But did I become completely invested in this strange, lonely girl living amongst the gulls and grasses of the North Carolina marsh?

Absolutely.

Perhaps I should stop avoiding books just because everybody else loves them.

Although I'm making no promises.