I like to think of myself as the perfume girlie. Even though scents and I have a very complicated relationship.
There was a time in my life where I went completely perfume-less for a really long time. There were two scents that I enjoyed, but unfortunately both got ‘stolen’ from me, so I stopped wearing them. It’s a story for another day. Everything else was abhorrent, because it would immediately trigger a migraine. My migraines have thankfully somewhat mellowed out with age — as in, not every single thing on my trigger list affects me daily as it used to — so in recent years I began collecting fragrance again.
But collector is a loaded word. I would blind buy a lot of things, and mostly inexpensive things, because these would be the only fragrances I could afford. I’m a maximalist, and I like VARIETY in most things, so having a small curated collection is definitely not about me. Which means that instead of having one niche perfume, I have fifteen inexpensive ones.
And the bottles! Oh, I love the pretty bottles. I keep all my empty perfume bottles in the same cupboard that houses my grandmother’s Bohemia crystal and bone china. But as any perfume aficionada will tell you, a pretty bottle does not a good fragrance make.
It also took me a while to figure out how the entire base/mid/top note thing works. I would often get enamoured with a top note — and a top note is fleeting — only to discover when I come home that I absolutely hate the base. And ‘hate’ is half the problem. At the worst I would use it to spray right outside my front door, to dissuade my neighbour from the idea that my cats smell. (They don’t. I’ve asked. My neighbour either has hyperosmia, or a grudge against me.) Some of the bases would be a migraine trigger.
And then there’s some things that I like in theory. Like, I love the idea of vanilla or almond. But I think I’ve only found one execution of either that I find comforting and pleasant. Everything else immediately goes into ‘headache’ territory.
Coffee is another thing like that. Who doesn’t like the scent of coffee filling a quiet kitchen on a Saturday morning? But I have yet to find a perfume that would imitate that idea for me.
And, of course, there’s the body chemistry. I recently got a small sample vial of Lacoste’s Pour Femme. I was scenting it day in and day out, not putting it on myself, because I didn’t want to waste it, nor spend any money, and I was absolutely sure that I would rush out to buy the biggest bottle the moment this concoction touched my skin. The notes read well, too. There isn’t a single note in theory that I dislike in there.
And then I sprayed it on myself finally.
And thanked the Lord that I didn’t rush out to buy an entire bottle of this, because on me, to me, it was fucking vile. I’m sure I will encounter it on other women and lose my head for it, but on me, to me, it’s disgusting.
I’m not really sure where this is heading. Well, all of these posts lead to the same conclusion — that of me having enough of pretty much everything. I have a decent amount of perfume these days, and although there are some bottles that have been on my mind for a really long time, I’m okay without them.
Even though my instagram has nothing to show for it, I’ve been taking pictures of books for a long, long, looong time. And, of course, I would inevitably be taking photos of book hauls and TBRs.
Spoiler alert: Most of them are still that. TBRs, I mean.
Over the years I’ve come to realise that I’m not so much a slow reader, as I am just a distracted one. Depending on the subject and the language, I read anywhere between 40 and 70 pages per hour, which is not goddamn fast, but it’s not slow either. It’s just that apart from books, which I usually read several of, I also read magazines, newspapers, fanfiction (there, I said it), online newsletters, blogs, telegram channels, comics, etc., etc., etc. If we were to bind everything I read throughout the year in actual books, I would be somewhere around 200 probably, if not 300.
200 finished, and 100 unfinished.
Because as I mentioned, I read many books at the same time. I have the proud attention span of a fruit fly on psychedelics. Deal with it.
I’m still learning to.
Anyway.
While the list of books I am ‘currently reading’ we have dealt with elsewhere, behold The Bookstack Roast.
At one point in time I stacked books, and I took a picture of them.
And now I roast the stack, and me in tandem. Because most of these stacks are still unread, or at least unfinished.
Let’s start with a random one from September, the year that shall not be named, but I’ll name it anyway. 2020, the first year of the pandemic.
In September I recently returned home from Egypt, where I was stuck for half a year on a two week work trip gone awry. Planes did not fly, borders were closed, so I was stuck where I was, doing what I had to do. I also bought a car recently, and a day later found out that my salary was cut in two. Yes, in two, I’m not exaggerating. It was just another brush stroke to the wholesome portrait of my flourishing radicalisation.
I left that job years ago, and I’m still angry.
But back to the books. Let’s go from the top.
don’t judge the photo; i was probably only planning on sending it to a friend
Out of the tree on the top, all written by Louise Penny, I’ve read the one on the bottom of the three. Still Life, the first in her series of mysteries about Gamache. At that time I thought I wouldn’t continue the series, at least not beyond the three books that I had bought, but I have since then reconsidered and added the books to my ‘series i’m more or less reading’ list. I like my mystery fiction a little bit… I was going to say punchier, but that’s not it. Anyway, Penny’s work is not fully to my taste, but I’ll continue the Gamache series. As of now I still have the two books that I bought five fucking years ago proudly unread.
Next in the pile is Du Maurier’s The House on the Strand, criminally still unread. It is followed by Updike’s Rabbit, Run, also unread, also criminally so.
I can explain.
I have this thing where I desire to read books in their original untranslated selves if I have the privilege of speaking the language. I read Russians in Russian, Moldavians and Romanians in Moldavian and Romanian. I attempt to read Spaniards and Spanish Latin Americans in Spanish, and I strive to read writers who write in English in, well, English.
However.
The library I own predates my existence. It’s been composed by my parents, and their parents, and the parents of their parents before I was ever ideated in any form. And as much as I would like, say, to read Steinbeck or London in English, I already have their works in Russian, translated, published, procured, and shelved way before my day.
That’s the first reason.
The second reason is that I prefer paper books, and I am not made of money. We do have English shelves of questionable substance and quality in local book shops, but they don’t always have what I want, and when they do, it’s usually twice the price I’d pay online, even with shipping.
So I guess I should nip my inclinations in the bud, and read books in any language that’s available to me — I tell myself over and over again, but it just doesn’t work.
Recently I decided on a middle ground, which I have already breached a couple times, and which my briefly mentioned radical self calls a cop-out instead – but yeah, I told myself that I would read the books that I already own in a language that I already have them in, but if I do feel that the translation sucks balls, I will buy the book in English, and it won’t even count against my low-buy.
I think a lot about everything book related in my day to day, maybe even about as much as I actually spend reading.
Du Maurier I am not really worried about, as I read Rebecca in Russian, and it was fine. I think I only had one or two dissonances when reading. So if The House on the Strand was done by the same translator, I’ll be fine. Updike, however, I am not so sure.
I guess I just have to start reading and see.
Next in the stack lies Kazuo Ishiguro’s When We Were Orphans, and I worry about this one too, due to reasons outlined above. I notice that the classics are usually fine, and commercial trope fiction is usually shit (like, double shit), and litfic one never knows. It could fall into the hands of a good translator and shine, or it could fall into the hands of a good translator who doesn’t really understand the work and stink.
One would think that I consider myself a good translator – no. I’m bilingual, but I suck ass at translating. I even stopped doing it for money, even the bureaucratic stuff that brings in the most money anyway, because I just couldn’t stand it.
I apologise, by the way. You came for a book stack roast, and you’re getting half my biography and a bit of my family history as well.
As I said, I worry about Ishiguro, but other than that, I have no excuse for leaving this book unread for four and a half years.
Next in the stack are two books by Nesbo, both from Harry Holle series. We’ve got The Bat, and Cockroaches. I think they’re the first and the second in the series, but please double check elsewhere. The reason I haven’t read these two yet doesn’t particulary exist – I guess I was just distracted. I can’t decide if I enjoy Nesbo’s works or not. They’re okay, don’t get me wrong, some of them I might even rate higher than three – not that it should mean anything to you, but a three in my world is a good mark for a book. But still something is amiss. Anyway I bought them, so I might as well read them. I guess next time I’ll be needing a gorier thriller, I’ll pick up The Bat.
Finally we’ve reached another book in this stack that I have read. Remember this moment, kids, because next time we night not be this lucky.
Educated by Tara Westover is abook that I picked up at an almost random in Istambul airport. It was on my radar, but it wasn’t madly pinging. I picked it up, because it was one of the only books that sparked recognition, and I also really liked how it felt in my hands. I guess it just goes to show that it was meant to be, because it ended up being one of my favourite books of all time. I don’t reread books (thank my grandmother on father’s side for that), but I would break this rule for this book. The really aren’t many on the list, so I cherish this thought. I hope Westover has another book in her.
And finally, we have Atwood’s The Testaments, which is still unread, but will be soon. Back when I bought it, I was yet to finish The Handmaid’s Tale, and before I get to The Testaments, I want to read some of her earlier work.
Which we will get to in time – especially since some of it is also in the book stack pictures.
Lately I’ve been gravitating towards One Big Book of Everything more and more, however I still have a couple (more like a dozen…) separate notebooks to keep my main journal company. I don’t have a system that is set in stone, and although I don’t jump notebooks, I do modify my setup throughout the year. Usually it’s fluid, though – I have a thing about finishing every notebook I start, so even if I abandon it as, say, my main journal, I will finish it as a junk journal or work scribbles later. Throwing away perfectly usable unused paper is a sin in this household.
Here’s my current line-up.
As mentioned, we have the Big Book, which acts as my catch-all daily diary, and also a commonplace book. This is where I write the daily goings-on, any deeper thinking I might have, and also things like book notes, article quotes, what I watched and read that day, etc. I also write down content ideas here, and even initial drafts, because often I think much better “on paper” than “on screen”, so to say.
Then there’s the Small Book. Its purpose is the same as the Big Book’s, but this one stays in my handbag, and I carry it everywhere with me. Journalling is a habit, a hobby, but also a coping mechanism for me. I need to have a notebook on me at all times, because I never know when I would need to ground myself by putting pen to paper. The Small Book is indeed small most of the time – either in terms of thickness (12 to 24 pages), or in terms of page size (around A6), or in both of these terms.
appointment book and small book
Next up is my daily planner/ appointment list thing. It’s small – A6-ish, but thinner and taller – and I really only put places and times in here. Sometimes when there’s space I might put in a short grocery list or a to-do list, but mostly it’s just “noon – brunch with A” and “1400 – dentist” type stuff. The notebook is undated, so if I don’t have any plans on any particular week – and I live to not have appointments lol – then I just skip inputting that week to avoid blanks as much as possible. Which is why this notebook will probably last me longer than the supposed 9 months to a year.
Then there’s the media review journal. When I finish a movie, or a series, or a book, I write the title here, print out the cover/ poster on my thermal printer, and try to come up with a short review-like note. It used to house daily rambles about the books I read as well, but I moved them to my Big Book, because I kept rambling about that there anyway, and constantly jumping between notebooks as I went disrupted the flow. I am not exactly happy with the set-up I have going on for the media journal, but I don’t think the set-up is at fault. It’s just that I have a lot of catching up to do, and seem to never find a solid pocket of time to sit down and structure my thoughts.
Then there’s the junk journal. I usually repurpose an abandoned planner or any other kind of notebook for this. Junk journal is what it says – I usually just collect a bunch of receipts, clothes tags, paper scraps, flyers, promotional stickers, etc., and glue them in here. Since I’m also prone to writing down notes, lists, quotes, etc., on random pieces of scrap paper, I glue them in here as well. Sometimes the pages work really well and are worth sharing, other times it really is just an amalgam of random scraps. Some of the things mentioned, like bus tickets and tea tags, also end up in my main book. Junk journal usually gets leftovers or things that are ‘out of date’, so to say. For example, if I have a bank queue stub that I remember to use in my main, I’ll use it in my main, and write about why I was at that place in said queue anyway. If I don’t journal that day, or forget that I had a queue stub to glue in, it will end up in my junk journal.
My sketchbook comes next. It’s exactly what it says on the tin – a sketchbook. I’ve been getting back in to drawing and painting slowly. There are some weeks where I sketch daily, but mostly it’s once or twice a week. The notebook I picked for the purpose is hardly functional – the paper is thin, and it bleeds with every marker and rips with every eraser. I’m even considering abandoning it and then repurposing for a junk journal later down the line – or, oddly enough, for a media journal, since I don’t do much in my media journal apart from write a review and glue in a thermal print-out of a cover/ poster or a relevant sticker.
ETA: decided to keep as is.
Then I have a recipe journal. I’m not a prolific cook by any means, but oddly enough I cook well. 99% of the time I go without a recipe, though. So if I get comments on how well the thing was cooked, I try to remember what herbs I used exactly and for how long I fried it on each side or whatever it is that you’re supposed to remember, because chances are high I’ll get a request for ‘that soup’ or ‘that mushroom dish’ again, and I’ll draw a blank unless I write it down. This notebook is also where I put down shorthand notes for my patreon ‘rock bottom gourmet’ series, though usually the things in there are so simple, I’m able to keep them in my head until I have time to write the thing down.
Write. Everything. Down.
And then there’s the language learning journal. I’m tackling a few languages at a time, and to keep track of my week rotation and materials I use I have this notebook. It’s nothing fancy – just dates of the month listed with a literal one-liner about what language I practised that day and what materials I used. If I’m feeling exceptionally bold, I write it down in the target language, but the vast majority of notes here is in English and Russian, i.e. my main languages.
I also keep a Tarot journal. The one in the picture is an old one. My current is a simple marbled composition notebook, and it’s lasting me ages, because I no longer write out detailed meanings of cards by hand each time I do a spread. So it’s just spread information (date, querent’s name, deck used, card layout), and then a list of cards the deck supplied for each position. Afterwards I jot down some thoughts on what I think it all means, and then either elaborate in my Big Book (if the spread is for me), or type up a doc file to send to the person who requested a spread.
I have a separate notebook for morning pages, but since I’m really bad at writing first thing in the morning – I should make it a challenge and get back to it – the notebook has been lasting me ages. It’s a vertical pad, A5 in size.
For my job, I keep a job junk notebook. It’s different from my junk journal, because this is basically for scribbles whenever I’m on the phone for my job, or to write down any questions I get throughout the day to ask my supervisor later. But mostly it’s just phone scribbles. I can’t stay alert during a phone conversation unless I scribble something as I go.
Lastly, we have my makeup/ panning journal. This is to keep track of all the makeup products that I am currently trying to pan/ finish. I have a really big beauty stash, and I make panning content on youtube. This helps keep track of everything. I have an electronic duplicate of projects and video schedule in Notion, but this one stays on my vanity, and makes it easy to track usage, write down product names, note down when I finished something, etc.
That’s it. I’m getting really close to finishing my main notebook, which means I will probably modify the entire line-up as well. I might start a separate commonplace notebook, or I migh start a separate one for my content, or I might abandon the media journal altogether and just squish it all in one volume, together with everything but the sketches and recipes and appointments. Who knows? Certainly not I. I don’t sweat it, though, because I’ve been keeping notebooks for as long as I remember myself, so whatever happens will be quite natural anyway.
ETA: I’ve started a new Big Book, and everything is so far as it was.
I’m curious, what kind of journals do YOU keep? Let’s chat about our notebook obsessions in the comments!
I grew up around books. Some of my fondest childhood memories are leafing through art encyclopedias in my grandfather’s study, or poking through the illustrations in the volumes of Russian classics, or sitting in my ‘under-the-table’ fort, reading for hours.
A book purchase has never really been frowned upon in this house. I remember a spell of being quite poor when I was a kid, and I really wanted the entire series of The Wizard of Emerald City. I saw it in the shop, but knew I couldn’t get it, and it was never available in the library. Even in the book shops back then it was a rarity. Somehow, I don’t know how, my parents conspired and got the entire series for me. I still have it.
I know that I will never fully stop getting more books. But for now I am content with significantly slowing down and enjoying what I have.
My instagram bio says I have 150 shelves of books, and it’s not a lie, nor even an exaggeration. I have a full room lined with shelves, aptly called “library”, and I have more in my bedroom, and yet more in the hall, the entrance area, the living room. Some shelves have double rows. Some deeper and wider cupboards have towers of vertically stacked books in them, because that way we could fit more. The entire house is a library. Some of these books I’ll likely never read, or at least not in full, but in my book (forgive the pun) that’s not an incentive to part with them. Books are memories, good and bad, and I haven’t got any inclination to erase memories.
I never wanted to put a significant limit to my book purchases, because I am a mood reader, and trying to follow a pre-existing TBR usually puts me in a reading slump. But I do have enough books in my library, both physical and electronical, to suit any fancy I might fall into. So one lovely winter morning I decided to stop using this excuse and put a limit to my book purchases for now. There are releases that I know I will want to get, and they’re on a special list, but apart from that, my shelves are full, and my wallet is guarded.
I know I would not be able to adhere to a complete book no-buy, so I’m on a low-buy, and the rule is: 3 out, 1 in. Meaning, when I finish 3 books, I can buy one new. I’m not the fastest of readers, so this has slowed down my purchases significantly. So far I’ve only got 1 ebook, 2 physical, 1 audio with an Audible credit, and one other ebook that’s been free on kindle (yet undecided if I’m going to count it against my book low-buy bank; likely I won’t). It’s not a perfect system, but if I didn’t have it in place, I would’ve got much more, so it will stay unchanged for now.
If you’d like to take a look at my book tracker, you can easily do it here. I usually update it once a month, or whenever I buy something new.
This is the first book I’m reviewing from my pile of “whoops I forgot to finish these”. Please note, that much like my ratings, this should not really tell you anything about the book’s merits. I am a seriously heavy mood reader, so a lot of the time I would drop the book in the middle of an exceptional gripping plot simply because ✨the vibe✨ is off. So the fact that it took me nearly three years to finish this excellent thriller doesn’t make it any less excellent. It just makes me appear odd in the head. (I am.)
I started reading Triptych by Karin Slaughter on my way home from visiting a friend in Germany. I made a stop-over in Iasi (that’s in Romania) before heading to my hometown by train. I bought the book there in a secondhand book shop, and dived into it on the train. It certainly made the 4 hour trip seem way shorter.
It’s hard to talk about this book without giving away any details that might point at the twist, so I am going to resort to the Amazon blurb.
When Atlanta police detective Michael Ormewood is called out to a murder scene, he finds himself faced with one of the most brutal murders of his career.
As a one-off killing it is shocking, but it soon becomes clear Aleesha Monroe is just the latest victim in a series of similar attacks.
Twenty-four hours later, the violence Michael sees every day explodes in his own back yard.
And it seems the mystery surrounding Monroe’s death is inextricably entangled with a past that refuses to stay buried…
I gotta say, I WAS a bit disappointed by ✨The Twist✨ in this book, though, but only because I saw it coming. However I’m not taking out any stars as I just love Karin Slaughter’s thrillers. Subtle social commentary that doesn’t at all feel dictated by an agenda or ‘the current thing’. The way her writing is descriptive yet simple. She doesn’t shy away from gore, but doesn’t make a feast out of it either. And her characters and plot lines get developed layer by layer, moved not by the formulaic understanding of ‘show don’t tell’, but by the subtlety that’s part of her talent. The pace is great, and the characters are compelling yet flawed – or maybe because they’re flawed.
I was thinking of taking out one star because of some mixed feelings I had somewhere there in the middle, inspired by the twist or not, I can no longer remember. But the moment I closed the book, I immediately realised it’s a five-star.
Have you read Karin Slaughter’s books? If you love crime fiction and haven’t yet read anything by her, please pick up Triptych. It’s the first one in the Will Trent series.
