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2019 was a particular year for me. It was my first year entirely reliant on public transport. Having lived in a country where trains and buses are restricted rather than being the norm, I came to find the uninterrupted time afforded to me by my morning and evening commutes precious. Even today, I cherish and strive to preserve this time.


At first, I dedicated this hour-or-so to reading. I discovered the amount of books I could read during time was impressive. It was the first time I had devoted time to reading on a daily basis, and the rhythm of it was comforting and soothing. Each day, I began with the entry into fiction. Through the gloomy mornings, I was accompanied by characters from otherworldly places. And each evening, they awaited me on the train.


However, in 2019, I also began to regiment my writing routine. As much as I loved the reading sessions on the train, I began to use this time more often in pursuit of my writing. So much so, that I finished my first novel and worked through the vast majority of a second. As enriching as the reading was, I came to find much more in these short writing sessions. Being able to work on one's own pursuits before offering up eight to nine hours of time to a job was not only rewarding but uplifting too. Similarly, being able to pick that up again in the early evening as the train rolled through the coming darkness, is something I'm grateful for. Again, I found a rhythm. A pace. More importantly, the short sprints of writing taught me to write cleanly - that is, without being hounded by the editor that sits perched in the back of every writer's mind. The sole mandate of each session was progress. Not perfection. And for a writer that can get entrenched in a single passage, tripping on the order of a few sentences, this was a crucial habit for me to find.


But i digress...


With the daily writing sessions on the train, my reading fell to the wayside. The speed at which I read slowed. The number of books I finished, lessened. And as such, I barely came close to hitting the bottom of the book pile on my bedside table. There they sit, still staring at me; although I have committed to reading more this year. Nevertheless, that promise has done little to silence their impatient whisperings.


So, of what I read during the last year, I thought it would be fun to review my standout picks of 2019. Those few books that gripped me, transported me and inevitably inspired and taught me. But, before I get stuck into those reviews, I thought I would also share with you those books that sit glaring at me from the shadows, waiting for their turn to be picked up, opened and unleashed.


For 2020, my must-reads (some old, some new, but mostly old) are:

1. The Secret History, by Donna Tartt.

2. A Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley.

3. Johannes Cabal, by Jonathan L. Howard.

5. The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck.

6. Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell.

7. Murder on the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie.

8. Steppenwolf, by Hermann Hesse (already read, but this should be read every year).


There will be others, I am sure. But these are those who await.


Of the books that I shall review from 2019, they are:

1. Watch, by Keith Buckley.

2. The Dark Tower (Series), by Stephen King.

3. The Lurking Fear, by H.P. Lovecraft.

4. The Cemetery of Forgotten Books (Series), by Carlos Ruiz Zafòn.

5. On Writing, by Stephen King.

6. Guns, Germs and Steel, by Jared Diamond.

7. The Road, by Cormac McCarthy.

“Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.��

The writer sits bent over his tools. A lamp is the only source of light. The muse lingers in the corner and whispers its inspiration. Then comes the ingenious spark - the flash of brilliance that will set fire to a plot, characters and eventually a roaring novel. These are the classical notions of a writer which I have always struggled with. I was always too perturbed about the otherworldly aspects of a writer.
Romanticised? Yes, of course.
Delusional? Somewhat.
But there are truths to some of these things. A writer needs his tools. A writer needs his, or her, place to sit and craft. And no matter how skeptical you may be, there is a muse (it just isn’t ever the seraphic figure you would imagine).

Another thing which always bothered me (and still does), are my doubts. To consider writers such as Salinger, Steinbeck, McCarthy, Tolkien and Hesse as my aspirational benchmarks, is a daunting standard to compare oneself to, never mind try and emulate. Not only are they profound writers, but prolific too. They’ve all written numerous novels. They’re working writers. They have a system. An ethic. So if you strip away the mystics and romantic beliefs, you’ll find an approach. There’s no undefinable process or supernatural ability that sets them apart from the rest of us. Yes, talent is a variable. And not all writers are the same. Talent varies from one writer to the next, and that inherent skill is up to the lucky draw. I guess the most terrifying doubt to plague anyone pursuing the creation of something, is that one single question�� Is anything I’m producing actually worth anything?



Stephen King’s On Writing, doesn’t deal with that. Instead, it’s a refreshing take on the nuts and bolts of writing. King’s candid dive into his own history as a writer not only reaffirmed many things I already thought to be true, but most importantly (for me, of course), is that the book de-mystifies the art. Quite simply put, it boils down to sitting before your workplace and getting started, and once you do that don’t stop. Write what you want. Write for yourself, first. And then open it up to others. Most importantly, be honest. It is an art of practice, of honing one’s style and skill.

King says, “Words create sentences; sentences create paragraphs; sometimes paragraphs quicken and begin to breathe.�� When I picked this book up, I was apprehensive of what I was going to find. A part of me thought King would reveal attributes that I simply lacked. Things that I missed completely. Instead, I found a straightforward conversation from one of the most successful writers, and it was surprisingly comforting. There is no magic in the same sense that I first duped myself into believing. The spark of brilliance granted by a muse. Nope. The magic lies in putting one word after the other. The rhythm that follows, and then, when everything goes well, the wonders that are revealed to the writer himself.

On Writing, reaffirmed one important thing for me. Inspiration doesn’t come knocking. You find it in the labour. For me, that is such a comforting thought. No matter how tired or uninspired I may feel, or how disheartened I may feel after a poor writing session - there is one thing I always experience. Enrichment. It knocks the socks off anything, because I sat down and wrote. Perhaps some of it is shit. Perhaps all of it will be discarded at a later stage. But even if that is the case, I got it out and made space for the good stuff. And at the end of it all, I’ve learnt, and in may ways, I hope I’ve become better. Most importantly though, I’m happier for it. And isn’t that what it’s all about? I think King would agree with me on that��