At what point did making books harder to read become a sign of literary quality?

Every so often I pick up a literary novel, settle into my favourite chair, turn the first page and immediately find myself playing a game of "who's actually speaking?"

There are no quotation marks. Dialogue drifts into narration. Characters merge together. Paragraphs stretch for pages with barely a full stop to catch your breath.

It isn't long before I'm no longer immersed in the story. Instead, I'm decoding it.

When a book becomes too heavy to hold: Reading A Little Life

Some books draw us in gently. Others demand something from us. A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara is a novel that does both. 

It's a book, which, for me, was packed with such overbearing emotional weight, emotion so densely packed like bodies pressed together on the tube, that it is a challenging read.

After Lonesome Dove: why Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy is the Western to read next

For many readers, Lonesome Dove is not simply a favourite novel but a defining one. It leaves such an indelible impression. 

It certainly did for me. It arrives with deceptive ease, settles in slowly, and leaves behind the feeling of having lived another life. Its greatness lies not only in its characters, vast landscape and epic scope, but also in its sense of finality. It says what it needs to say, fully and generously.

Which is precisely why it is best left alone.

Reading in the gaps: Why we return to books that broke us

There are books we finish and put down, and for a while, we are unable to speak. These are books that pull the air from our lungs. That leave us raw, like skin rubbed thin. And yet, somehow, we return to them.

Not immediately, of course. Often, we need time. Months. Years. Distance to recover from the ache they left behind. But they are on our minds, and the pull is there. Like gravity drawing us back to earth.

Why the Literary western endures — and what’s driving Lonesome Dove’s TikTok resurgence

There’s something quietly electric about Lonesome Dove’s return in the BookTok universe: the dust-swept epics and tender, layered characters suddenly feel urgent again. 

In a time when TikTok scrolls through bite‑sized narratives, this sprawling western reminds us that sometimes we long for horizons—not just on screen, but in story. 

The Road: A devastating vision, brought beautifully to screen

TikTok got me thinking about great book-to-screen adaptations. There are plenty of good and bad out there. For me, Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is one of my all-time favourite book-to-screen adaptations. Not because it’s flashy or overly faithful in a scene-by-scene sense, but because it captures the soul of the novel with eerie precision. Both book and film are bleak, yes. But they’re also deeply human, tender even, and ultimately unforgettable.

What is the Great American Novel – and does it still matter?

One of the questions I’m endlessly fascinated by when it comes to literature is The Great American Novel.

It is so evocative, and carries such weight. It's more than a slogan — it signals ambition, scope, and the desire to say something profound about the American experience. But what exactly is it? Where did the term come from? Why do writers still chase it and why are we still talking about it.    

Whatever happened to Donna Tartt?

I found a box of books in the attic yesterday, and a signed copy of Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch was buried there. I added it to the bookshelf alongside a signed copy of The Little Friend.

I’m a massive fan of Donna Tartt, particularly (like many people) The Secret History, which I wrote about recently. It got me thinking—whatever happened to Donna Tartt?

It has been more than a decade since Tartt published her last novel, The Goldfinch (2013), which won the Pulitzer Prize and cemented her status as one of the most celebrated literary figures of our time. But since then? Silence.

Tartt has never been a prolific writer. She famously takes a decade (or more) between books, crafting intricate, deeply atmospheric novels that become instant modern classics. The Secret History (1992) and The Little Friend (2002) were each published with long gaps in between, setting a pattern of meticulous, slow-burn literary output. But now, more than ten years have passed since The Goldfinch, and there’s no official word on what comes next.

So, where is Donna Tartt? And why is the wait for her next novel taking even longer this time?

Six novels that demonstrate why “show, don’t tell” is worth getting right

When I wrote about “The art of showing, not telling” recently, I realised how many great examples of this technique exist in literature. Some authors take it to the next level, showing us emotions, relationships, and tension in ways that draw entirely us into the story without a single line of “telling.” 

I thought it might be useful to look at a few of these standout examples and the writers who have mastered the art of showing so well that their stories linger long after you’ve finished reading.