Not reading books

The life of a bookseller

Yesterday’s stall bestsellers

1. Killer in the Kremlin (signed) by John Sweeney

2. The Lamplighters by Emma Stonex

3. The Escape Artist: The Man Who Broke Out of Auschwitz to Warn the World by Jonathan Freedland

4. A Thing of Beauty: Travels in Mythical and Modern Greece by Peter Fiennes

5. Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens

A photographer I used to work with a lot was fond of saying that one day he would get round to writing his memoirs, Not Taking Photographs. His point was that, especially on foreign assignments, a good 90% of the effort was expended not really doing the job people thought he did. It was only once the visas had been applied for, jabs taken, accreditations sought, interviewees tracked down, provisions provided, travel undertaken that he could, at last, take a picture or two. (He is a wise soul: he once assured me that no matter how grand a title I was given, my job would always involve writing especially verbose picture captions.)

If I were to write a memoir of my four-and-a-bit months in the book trade so far, it could probably be called Not Reading Books: A Literary Life.

Which is an exaggeration, of course. I have just about managed to keep to my target of reading a book a week: keeping abreast of new releases and scouting out interesting titles you might have missed is, of course, a big part of the job. It’s just that reading for work is almost entirely done once I’ve finished actual work. There's a lot of reading in the working day, too, but invoices, emails and buying catalogues are no substitute for a good novel.

For some reason, I’ve also found it harder to concentrate on fiction recently. After a day fiddling with numbers in Excel, somehow it’s been easier to focus on the next chapter of a history or book of reportage than summon up the imagination to drift away with a novel.

So last week was bliss. Not just because there was a distinct lack of rain for an English countryside holiday, because there was a hot tub and a pub called “The Owl” and because three dogs were somehow easier to handle than one. But also because I let myself get lost in a novel. And there’s really nothing like it, is there?

God’s own bookseller

The book was Milk Teeth by Jessica Andrews, and it was great: the sort of book that has you nodding - and cringing - in recognition, and opting out of family outings in favour of staying in the café to read another chapter.

I loved her first book, Saltwater, partly set in her native Sunderland. Milk Teeth has the same immediacy, vivid imagery and beautiful turns of phrase. Twenty- and thirty-somethings will experience the same jolts of recognition as they do reading Sally Rooney, but, for my money, Andrews is the better writer. (If you’re interested, you can read more about Milk Teeth here.)

I came back to London feeling like I’d been to Barcelona, where the novel is partly set, not Yorkshire. And ready to spread the word… I already sold a copy at the pop-up bookshop yesterday.

What books have you read on your holidays? Any you’d recommend? Hit reply or post a comment on the thread.

Speak soon,

Tom