Ghost Writer

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.

The Wife, The Mother and Me

Last night I speed-read a book entitled "Le Conflit, la femme et la mère" by a French sociologist called Elisabeth Badinter. (Speed-reading, like speed-cooking or speed-shopping or speed-showering, are just the techniques we mothers use in order to cram the basics into a too-short 24 hour day...). Basically, the book is about the new post-feminist wave of "naturalism": i.e. a return to the idea that women should set aside their role as individuals (at least temporarily) and devote 100% of their time and effort to their kids, once they have made the decision to have children.
Badinter refutes the intelligence of this idea, but nevertheless points out - very convincingly - just how widespread it is becoming in the year 2010. And it's true: I see evidence of this "return to nature and maternity" all around me.


Women are increasingly pressured to breastfeed (whereas, 10 years ago, the decision to breastfeed was presented as a choice; these days, formula milk is stigmatised and mothers who opt not to breastfeed are perceived as slightly selfish, or lacking the famous maternal instinct...); more and more women are choosing to stop working (fine if it really is a choice: not fine if it's due to outside pressure) to bring up their kids; home births are all the rage; epidurals are bad, bad, bad and prevent mothers from truly bonding with their baby; the psychological well-being of babies and kids has become a source of immense concern... requiring that a sizeable chunk of the mother's time and energy be devoted to it.

Badinter argues that, since women now choose when and how to have kids, they feel they have a certain debt to pay towards the child who "didn't ask to be born"... and must therefore dutifully fulfil the role of perfect mother for as long as it takes. And despite the pitfalls, frustrations and sacrifices involved.

I know what a can of worms this is, and I want to stress that I'm not advocating one or the other viewpoint. I don't think there's a "right" answer to the way maternity should be approached. But I do get a bit niggled when I witness the attitude of "voluntary submission to our kids" that I see happening more and more. When I hear about the virtues of a home birth without pain relief, I can't help thinking that it's easy for my generation to be blasé about science and medicine... because we've never lived through a time when women frequently died in childbirth.
Likewise, a generation ago, formula milk was seen as progress, because it allowed mothers some freedom: many of us grew up drinking formula milk and, for the most part, well, we seem to be doing OK. Now, suddenly, it's akin to drugs in a bottle...

OK, this is a VAST subject and I realise that whatever points I make here will be too superficial, but if anyone feels like continuing the debate with me, then feel free.

I just have one final thought: I am by no means a career-minded, convenience food, pack-the-kids-off-to-creche-with-a-light-heart kind of mother. And if the state offered me a year's maternity leave, I would happily take it.
But if, at the end of a day devoted mostly to looking after my kids, I have a couple of hours to myself: well, I would rather read a sociology book than chop up and mix vegetables for homemade purée. And I'd rather my baby slept in his own bed, so that I can take some time for myself, my husband, my brain, my enjoyment.

The shocking thing is, these days, that probably seems shocking to a lot of mothers...

To Read or Not To Read?

There is a paragraph in "Night Train to Lisbon" by Pascal Mercier that made me sit up, reflect and re-read:

There were the people who read and there were the others.
Whether you were a reader or a non-reader: it was soon apparent.
There was no greater distinction between people. People were amazed when he asserted this and many shook their heads at such crankiness. But that's how it was. Gregorius knew it. He knew it.

These words caught my attention because they say something I have always secretly thought to be true. But have never really expressed aloud, for fear of seeming like a "book snob" (or whatever the reader's equivalent of "racist" is).
But the more I think about it, the more true it is, I feel. Both my mum and my sister are big readers. And to be honest, so are all of my closest friends.
This may be a coincidence, of course, but is anything really that much of a coincidence, when it comes down to it? Isn't it more likely that we are simply drawn to people who share the same approach as us, who are sensitive to the same things?
I think that those of us who love books have - to some extent - a rich inner life, an escape route from reality, and that tends to come across in some way. At least, it does to a fellow reader.

Just to conclude this post, imagine my delight at BB's growing interest in books!
Sure, we've always made sure he has access to lots of books, but just lately he's actually started "reading" them himself, and for the past few nights I've actually caught him reading in bed before lights out (I use the term reading loosely of course. A more appropriate description would be "turning pages and looking at pictures, often upside down". But the enthusiasm is there).
If BB turns out to be a reader, there's not much would make me happier (except maybe if he follows our lead and also elects to be vegetarian, but that's another story...).

Ah... something tells me we're going to get on just fine, me and my BB...

Our Man in Washington

I just finished reading Barack Obama's autobiography, Dreams From My Father.
It was published in 1995, so presumably well before he had any realistic aspirations of becoming President...
What I mean is: I don't think it should be read as a propaganda pamphlet, and that's certainly not the way it comes across.

Well, I was quite a fan before I read his book... but now I think I have progressed to the stage of full-blown groupie.
Maybe one day I will be forced to eat my words (manger mes mots?!), but this is one politician who seems to be as genuine as they get.
This is a man who walked away from a blooming corporate career in his early twenties to go and work with under-privileged families in Chicago, then decided to study law so that he could defend the down-trodden more effectively.
It would take a major dose of cynicism for such a man to become corrupted, now that he has finally made it to the top job.

As I say, maybe I will regret my near-hero worship at some point in the future, but I'm hoping not.

For goodness sake, last night I even dreamt about him! I dreamt that we were a couple... or was it that Barack was trying to desperately to persuade me to go out with him? Yes, I think that was it.
Sad, isn't it? And to think that I am a respectable 31 year old wife and mother...
Bet I'm not the only one, though.

Optimism seemed to have caught him unawares

This beautiful line is not my own – unfortunately – but appears in a book called “The Road Home”, by Rose Tremain. I won’t often bore you with the details of great books I’ve read recently, but this one really deserves a special mention. It’s the story of an Eastern European immigrant who arrives in London, hoping to find work, make some money and improve the quality of life of his loved ones, back home. And of course, it’s not as easy as he expects. This is one of those novels where everything – characters, mood, setting – just seem to come alive, and despite all the other pressing things you have to attend to, you just can’t help turning page after page…
You quickly feel that Lev is someone you know, you want to reach out and offer him a word of encouragement, you feel pained that his private plight goes largely unnoticed.
And the ending is unexpected, thought-provoking…

Anyway, I love the idea that optimism might catch you unawares. Like pure contentedness. Rare moments to be noted and treasured.

Afterthought: Today, America gets a new president, and, rightly or wrongly, we can’t help feeling he might just be a good guy, someone we can believe in. So, regardless of how things may turn out later, I for one woke up this morning feeling optimistic. And why not?