I just finished yet another book by Kate Long: "Queen Mum".
As with all her others (her most famous one being, I think, "The Bad Mother's Handbook"), I consumed it greedily in less than three days.
I love Kate Long. I love her books so much that I accidentally ordered the American edition of a book of hers I already have (the British version has a different title), so thrilled was I at the thought that there was another work of hers out there that I'd yet to read.
She writes the kind of easy, stylish, thoughtful and people-based novels I wish with all my being that I had written myself.
I hold her books dreamily, stroke their covers in between paragraphs (forcing myself to slow down, lest the pleasure be consumed too quickly...) and imagine it is my name, not hers, in embossed lettering.
When will I put all the stories in my head to paper? When will the words and characters flow as elegantly and as compellingly as hers do?
What an achievement, to write like that. Try as I might to draw a line under all this fantasizing and embrace more corporate ambitions, I still can't help but believe that there is no greater accomplishment than this: put your name to two-hundred readable pages... slide the little volume off the shelf... stroke its cover and know it's all yours.
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