Look what I’ve got! My Invisible Boyfriend (out in less than 2 weeks, wheee) in all her hardback glory. If only cameraphone and dismal Oxford clouds could do it justice. Honestly, it’s the shiniest, most strokeable book I’ve ever owned, and that has nothing to do with my name being on the front.
Oh, all right, maybe a little bit. But I bet you’ll want to stroke it too.
Loveliest of all, there’s even a surprise when you sneak the jacket off…
I have Happy Writer Face today. 😀
The Diary of A Doctor Who Addict, by Paul Magrs. Sometimes a book resonates with you so powerfully that it’s hard to review. Part of you wants to incoherently mash the keys with glee, and just type READ IT READ IT IT’S WONDERFUL, because attempts at description will fail. Part of you worries that what made it so wonderful was so deeply personal to you that no one else will really get it anyway. But I want to try, because I loved this, so much, and it’s a book that’s all about realising that you aren’t the only one, after all. 12-year-old David is beyond giddy at the prospect of new Doctor Who on his telly in 1982: the Doctor looks like Peter Davison now, not Tom Baker, but David still can’t wait to record The Show, and listen to it over and over, and write his little stories about it. But his best mate seems to have regenerated into a teenager, one who thinks Doctor Who is just for little kids, and David is suddenly under attack – not from Silurians or Cybermen but the ultimate enemy: adolescence. Magrs has impeccable Whovian credentials, but The Show is but one metaphor in a gloriously well-drawn 80s landscape, where adverts convince you that Pot Noodle is delicious, and make-up thrillingly might not just be for girls. While the nostalgia is epic for an old git like me, this book isn’t a stealth memoir: it’s a funny, touching coming-of-age tale, with utterly convincing characters, especially Mum and her own overwhelming mother. David’s realisation that perhaps he’s not just a ‘sensitive’ boy – that perhaps he doesn’t want to kiss Karen, at all, and won’t ever – is beautifully handled, and I defy anyone to read the final chapter without filling up. This is what books are for. I’m so glad I read it. I want to read it again already.
Still tapping away at the Project Poppy edit (two and half chapters to go!), boosted by the fact that fabulous writing group buddies Sarah Mussi and Ruth Eastham have now read the first chapter, and a) didn’t hate it and b) kindly pointed out the part that was drivel. I’ve cut that bit. Now we just need a title. Um.