Keris Stainton's Blog, page 50

52 Books: The Making of Us by Lisa Jewell

I was so desperate to read this book before it came out and my friend Vicki loaned it to me aaaaaages ago, but then, for some reason, I didn't get around to reading it and the longer I left it, the… longer I left it. But after a disappointing run of 'grown-up fiction' (I started – and gave up on – three novels) I decided Lisa Jewell had never let me down before and so started reading…

… and I absolutely loved it. Let me start by saying it's not chick lit. I used to be on board with the term – god knows, I edited a chick lit website – and then, for a while, I thought it could be reclaimed, but now I'm sick of it. This book is not chick lit. My new definition is 'would it be called 'chick lit' if it had been written by a man?' and, no, it would not. If this book had been written by, say, David Nicholls, it wouldn't be called chick lit and so it's not chick lit. And that's my final word on the subject. (You know. For now.)

Much like Me Before You by Jojo Moyes (also NOT chick lit!), I didn't love the sound of this novel – the donor sibling register? Hmm. But of course I trusted Lisa and I was right to do so. I fell in love with every character in this book. It's funny, warm, thought-provoking and life-affirming. And two days running it almost made me late for the school run because I was so happily reading away in bed that I lost track of time.

And now you should read Vicki's wonderful review of The Making of Us. Thanks so much for the book, Vicki!

Harry and Joe answer questions about me

My friend Karen did this years ago – before Harry could really talk – but I found it again recently, thanks to FB timeline and asked Harry and Joe the questions this morning.

What makes Middy happy?

Harry: Reading books.

Joe: Er… sunshine.

What makes Middy sad?

Harry: Me and Joe being naughty.

Joe: Er… my bang bang drop funny. [?]

What was Middy like as a child?

Harry: I wasn't born when you were a child so I don't know.

Joe: Er… baby.

How old is Middy?

Harry: Is it 40?

Joe: Er… 7!

How tall is Middy?

Harry: I don't know… about 40 centimetres?

Joe: Bigger.

What is her favourite thing to do?

Harry: Writing tweets!

Joe: Er… makin' words.

What does Middy do when you're not around?

Harry: Do some work!

Joe: Er… Incy 'pider funny!

If Middy becomes famous, what will it be for?

Harry: Writing loads of books and being on TV and being on the radio.

Joe: You been Postman Pat deliver.

What does Middy do for her job?

Harry: Writing books.

Joe: Nothin'.

What is Middy's favourite food?

Harry: Sushi?

Joe: Cheese.

What makes you proud of Middy?

Harry: Writing books.

Joe: Done wee. [I think he's thinking of what makes me proud of him.]

What do you and Middy do together?

Harry: Going out together. I can't think of anything because there's loads of things.

Joe: Nothin'.

How are you and Middy different?

Harry: I don't have glasses.

Joe: You hair!

Where is Middy's favourite place to go?

Harry: Los Angeles.

Joe: Down here.

How do you know Middy loves you?

Harry: Cuddling each other.

Joe: Kiss!

How much do you talk to your children?

Another photo from Chicago.

Can this possibly be true? I know I'm possibly not typical, since I rarely stop talking* but I'd have been shocked if it had said 38 minutes a day, never mind a week.

Did they only count face-to-face talking with eye contact, maybe? As much as we do all talk, we don't do that as much as we should. But we talk in the morning before school. We talk on the way to school. We talk on the way back. We have family meetings. (We had one last night. Harry 'chaired' and when he asked if anyone had anything else to say, Joe stood up, went up to Harry and said, "Harry Stainton." Not sure he quite understood the brief.) We talk before bed. The thought of only talking with my children for 38 minutes a week, well… it's incomprehensible.

* The other day we went to the supermarket and Harry and Joe were driving me nuts. I wasn't so much talking with or to them as at them, but I was basically keeping up a running commentary of "Don't touch that. I said don't touch it. Put that down. No, we don't need that. Careful, you're in that man's way. Come here. Stand still. Leave that alone. Get out of the way. Hold your brother's hand. NO WE ARE NOT GETTING PICK'N'MIX!" Eventually I had them standing next to me and I said, "Now will you please just shush. Just… nice and quiet. I can't take anymore…" which is when I realised they'd both been nice and quiet almost the entire time, it was my own constant' waffle that was doing my head in. (You worked that out much quicker than I did, right?)

Meet Clinton

When I wrote about our 2001 US trip, I meant to include this story, but completely forgot. I've just noticed this photo on Flickr, so I thought I'd tell it now.

The guy in the photo came up to us at some traffic lights and started chatting. He was really friendly, he asked us where we were from, and was excited to meet people from England.

He told us his name was Clinton and asked us to take his photo. Then said, "When you get home to England, you can tell your friends you met a black man!"

Even ten years later, it still kind of blows my mind. But I guess not as much as it would have blown his if he'd hung around long enough for us to tell him he – gasp! – wasn't the first black man we'd ever met.

Now That's What I Call Spotify

So this may be the best thing ever in the history of the internet. Perhaps you all knew about it already and you've been keeping it from me because you knew I'd not only go on and on and on about it, but I'd also make a show of myself singing along with Separate Lives by Phil Collins & Marilyn Martin ("You build that wa-a-a-allllll! And you make it STRONGER!"), but oh my god… someone has made a Spotify playlist of all the Now That's What I Call Music albums. In order.

(There are inevitably some tracks missing – not everything's on Spotify – but you can see the track listings here.)

{via @JojoMoyes – Thank you, Jojo. I'll be eternally grateful. My neighbours, not so much.}

Before JK Rowling was JK Rowling

I spent a chunk of Saturday night going through the favourites on my Twitter (I know how to have a good time…) and I found this, which my writer friend Cat Clarke had linked to. It's an interview with JK Rowling when she was very excited to tell the interviewer that Harry Potter had sold "about 30,000 copies." Sigh.

52 Books: Flambards by K M Peyton

Oh, Flambards. Possibly the first TV show I fell in love with. I can remember playing out in the cul-de-sac opposite our house, probably riding my imaginary horse, and my mum standing at the front door, shouting that Flambards was starting. I remember how much I loved Will and being so upset when he [spoiler removed ]. But I'd never read the book. I was chatting about it on Twitter one day and the author Lucy Coats said "You must!" so I did.

And I loved it. In case you've neither watched nor read it, it's about orphaned Christina who is sent to live with her uncle and his two sons in their country house, Flambards. The uncle is obsessed with hunting with hounds, but since being crippled when a horse fell on him,  he's transferred his obsession to his sons, Mark, who's just as obsessed, and Will, who hates riding and hunting and loves flying and aeroplanes.

I remembered it all so clearly, much more clearly than I would have expected and it was one of those books where I didn't feel like I was reading, it was more like watching a film. Whether that's because I remember the TV show I don't know, but I suspect it's mainly because it's so beautifully written. I loved it.

Mind blowing

On the way home each morning, after dropping Harry off at school, I hear a recorded "sting" (as I believe they're called) on The Chris Evans Breakfast Show. It says, "Good morning, Britain. Welcome to another day here on Planet Earth."

Every single time I hear it, I think, "Bloody hell. We really are on a planet" and then I plan to seize the day, make the most of the time I've got (before picking H up from school again), etc. Of course, as soon as I get home I forget and end up spending the day picking up lego and farting about on Twitter, but I absolutely appreciate the daily reminder that we're all momentously lucky to be here at all.

I've seen this on a few people's Facebook pages and, like the above, it certainly focusses the mind, however briefly. Well worth watching.

52 Books: The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

I've read all of John Green's books and even though I've enjoyed them, I wouldn't call myself a fan. I certainly wasn't planning to buy The Fault in Our Stars as soon as it came out, but someone whose opinion I respect recommended it HIGHLY to me and so I pre-ordered it on the Kindle and started reading as soon as it downloaded.

I have a few problems with John Green's books, a couple of which are down to him and one of which is not. The one that's not his fault is that I think he's overrated because he's a man. That's not to say I don't think he's a wonderful writer, because I do, but it's the age-old issue that a man writing about love is universal and important, while a woman writing about love is domestic and frivolous. And that gets my back up. (See also: One Day – if it had been written by a woman, it would totally have been dismissed as chick lit.)

The issues I have that are down to him is that his books have previously been quite samey: there's a dorky boy, an apparently unobtainable girl – generally a Manic Pixie Dream Girl – and a wisecracking best friend. There's probably also a roadtrip. And the teens don't talk like teens. At all. Generally at least one, if not all, of them is rather pretentious. The fact that even the title of this latest book is pretentious did not bode well…

I deliberately read nothing about the plot of the book before buying it and I'm glad because I think if I had I probably would have avoided it. This is the Amazon summary:

Diagnosed with Stage IV thyroid cancer at 12, Hazel was prepared to die until, at 14, a medical miracle shrunk the tumours in her lungs… for now. Two years post-miracle, sixteen-year-old Hazel is post-everything else, too post-high school, post-friends and post-normalcy. And even though she could live for a long time (whatever that means) Hazel lives tethered to an oxygen tank, the tumours tenuously kept at bay with a constant chemical assault. Enter Augustus Waters. A match made at cancer kid support group, Augustus is gorgeous, in remission, and shockingly, to her interested in Hazel. Being with Augustus is both an unexpected destination and a long-needed journey, pushing Hazel to re-examine how sickness and health, life and death, will define her and the legacy that everyone leaves behind.


It sounds like a total downer, yes? But it's really not, honestly. One of the things I thought Green did brilliantly in this book was follow up some of the saddest moments with some of the funniest. More than once I literally found myself laughing through my tears. I really loved Hazel and Augustus and their friend Isaac, even though they don't sound like any teens I've ever heard (but then I've never watched Dawson's Creek). Yes, they're pretentious, but in this book, unlike, say, Paper Towns, there's a reason for them to be pretentious (a book that Hazel adores and passes on to Augustus) and so I was happy to let it slide.Mainly I just really loved it. I read it in a day and when I got to the end, started tweeting people I knew were reading it with "Have you finished yet? Have you? Did you love it? Did you?"

So, yes, it's about cancer. Yes, it's incredibly sad. But it's also sweet and funny and it really made me want to go to Amsterdam. It's my favourite John Green book by quite a long way.

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Happy Birthday, sweetpea.