Healthy, Nutritious... Fiction?

If we count New Year's Day as the close of play, it's been six weeks since the festive season ended. For most people, January arrives and the thrill of party food wanes. The ease of throwing six brie and cranberry parcels into the oven for a speedy tea, is overtaken by the craving for nourishment and balance. Vegetables re-enter the equation as meal times aim to fuel effectively, instead of providing half-assed energy levels muddied by intermittent indigestion and the shits. 

It's much the same with stories. From October onwards, I'm a sucker for a lightweight Christmas movie. Saccharine, schmaltzy, and oozing with festive feels. I love them, despite their terrible nutritional value. Then January comes along. Like my stomach for vegetables, my appetite for stories demands greater nourishment. I want nuance and depth; I want quality. It's the same process every time. Once the new year starts, I turn my back on Netflix and go to my bookshelf (and Kindle.) 

Let's be clear, not all books are filled with deep, nuanced quality - not that they can't be rip-roaringly enjoyable in spite of this. But by committing to reading words on a page/screen, I'm being an active participant in my entertainment. I'm not whacking on a Christmas film in the background, for my peripheral vision to take in the snow and jingles, whilst my mind focuses on Christmas shopping or compiling another list. Reading takes more effort than that. I think even the fluffiest of written stories provides more brain-oomph than their cinematic counterparts. In January, I read loads. More than the whole of the previous year.  As soon as I finished one book, I started the next. I was done with padding and filler. I needed my brain to be actively engaged again. My January reading list was an eclectic mix. Here, for anyone that cares even the slightest amount, are some of the excellently nourishing stories I read. 

First off, some young adult romance. The first three books of the Heartstopper series by Alice Oseman were a Christmas present, and I bought the fourth myself. Teen boy meets teen boy, and the sweetest romance ensues. Except these were graphic novels. Not a genre I tend to choose. Watching the story unfold visually was a treat. The art was spot on. Each picture was composed perfectly, allowing me to glide over at speed, taking in the salient points of the story, but with loads of tiny details standing out under closer inspection. I hoovered up all four books in no time.

Next was something related but hugely different. My only previous experience of graphic novels was Maus and Maus II. Written by Art Spiegelman I read both at University and remember them being excellent. So once I was done with Heartstopper, I dug them out and gave them a reread. By using a comic strip style, the Holocaust is presented by something we usually see as benign. In such an accessible format, there's no hiding the horror. The timeline of Maus jumps between Art's aging father recounting his experiences in the present day, and the events he witnessed as a young man in the death camps. It's visually clear and utterly arresting. I'm glad I took the time to remind myself of them. 

Next I wanted something lighter. Christmas films might be off the menu for another nine months, but I've no problem with a seasonally ill-timed novel. Enter Murder on the Christmas Express by Alexandra Benedict. Set on the Caledonian Sleeper on Christmas Eve, this was in the vein of a cosy mystery. Except it got pretty dark by the end. I don't want to come over all Michael Portillo (none of us want that) but I do like train journeys. And mysteries set on train journeys are all the more satisfying. A mish-mash of people from all over the place, in confined quarters, hurtling through the night at speed. It's the perfect backdrop for shenanigans. 

With my train whistle whetted, I was hungry for more. Years ago, I'd read Dick Francis' The Edge, a thriller set onboard a train travelling through Canada. Written in 1988, I was curious how well it stood up against modern-day scrutiny. I don't remember Dick Francis being especially small-minded but you never know until you check. Happily, it seemed to be OK. A few rich entitled characters, but no awful attitudes presented as acceptable. I travelled across the wilds of Canada and relished the thrills and spills of the story.

Back to another cosy mystery. Spurned on by the Christmassy-murder vibes I was sending it, my Kindle urged me to read Murder at the Theatre Royale by Ada Moncrieff. In 1930s London, a young reporter witnesses the death of a thespian during a stage rehearsal of A Christmas Carol. Suddenly her puff piece about the up and coming theatrical performance has turned into full-on investigative journalism. The snowy backdrop, stageful of actors, and eerie Mouse Trap vibes were more than enough to keep me swiping.

It was time to park the cosiness for some out and out grit. In came Chris Brookmyre. His latest novel The Cliff House was exactly what I needed. A second-marriage hen-do party arrives at a swanky holiday rental on a remote Scottish island. There are simmering tensions and a shed load of alcohol. And that's before the WifFi's cut and one of the women disappears. It was grippy and creepy, thrilling and boss. I've been reading Chris Brookmyre since he went by the alias of - wait for it - Christopher Brookmyre. I love his stuff. 

Realising how long I've been a Chris Brookmyre fan prompted me to go back to his earlier books. I chose Be My Enemy. On paper it sounds similar to The Cliff House. A bunch of characters with alcohol, stranded in a big house, while seething resentments intensify. Except back in 2005, Brookmyre's writing was more comedically grizzly; more outrageously graphic. I had only vague memories of the plot of Be My Enemy, but I could remember some of the more gross-out scenes that have never left my head. Abseiling down someone's large intestine? Accidental cannibalism? It was laugh out loud funny, and great to relive.

Finally, on the last day of the month, I saw off this bad boy. The Borrow a Bookshop Holiday. It's a cosy romance, with all the beats that entails. Kiley Dunbar is great at these. She knows exactly what she's doing with her take on the genre, and every note hits its mark. Jude and Elliot are unhappy and single. After some miscommunications, they find themselves thrust into a shared holiday let in a small Devonshire village bookshop. I fear I'll be giving away major plot points if I go any further, suffice to say IT IS LOVELY.

We're half way through February and my reading speed has definitely calmed. I'm still in the middle of the book I started ten days ago. What's made me slow down now? I'm not sure. There's just something about January. It's as if my brain insists I kick back into full throttle, after weeks of skiving. But it can't last forever. With a stomach full of veg and a head full of words, it's probably time I relaxed a little. Brie and cranberry parcel anyone?

Have a lovely week, folks.