The Power Of A Good Book To Change Your Life

During the long months I’ve been labouring through the final edit of my wretched manuscript, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the writing process and the impact that certain books have had on my life.

Firstly, I should clarify that my desire to have my own book published isn’t just some unfulfilled narcissistic dream to become an uber successful writer, living in LA and directing the movies to my stories. My motivation has always been to help parents in our situation, with a neurodivergent child, and to destroy the stigma around mental illness.

Fundamentally, that remains my reason for reading any book — to learn something new.

In hindsight, I suppose, I could have written another non-fiction account of what to expect from our experience — and I imagine it would have been a darn sight easier to get it published. However, for me, a fictionalised account resonates so much more. To be privy to the really visceral feelings of a person’s experience — something a writer cannot necessarily share in an autobiographical work in order to protect their subjects — has the power to change my mindset.

I’ve missed reading, having only recently emerged from the hard work years of parenting when I had a tendency to fall asleep the minute my head touched the pillow. And we don’t own too many books — as a result of too many house moves, a shortage of space, and my partner’s obsession with decluttering.

That’s something I intend to change in the future.

In so much as I aspire to the minimalist style in my home, I keep getting drawn back to those living spaces on Pinterest that have metres of open bookshelves, and Kindle is a very inferior substitution. I miss book covers SO much, and now that I have experienced the visceral pain of writing a piece of fiction, I know exactly what a sacrilege it is to chuck a book out.

We have kept certain books that mean something to each of us personally. My husband has kept a dog-eared copy of some guide to golf by Nick Faldo — that has never improved his swing — and a copy of Sapiens — a recent read that he believes has changed his life, if not his ability to wipe down the bench tops. And I own a copy of Little Women — which gave me so much pleasure as a child for the simple reason that the author had my name. Another is The Rosie Project - Graeme Simsion’s story of a neurodivergent mind — that resonated so much with me it was the inspiration behind my own interpretation of the difficulties faced by kids with ADHD and the parents that raise them.

In fact, I loved Simsion’s book so much, I sent him a fan-girl tweet about the book that was published on the inside cover of the UK version.

Then there is Schindler’s Ark, a book that my husband recommended to me when we were first dating, and was undoubtedly my awakening to the imbalances in the world and the trigger in my passionate fight against discrimination. In hindsight, it was also kind of a freaky choice, because several years later, three months into my pregnancy with our eldest child, we were in New York — a very ill-thought-out holiday destination during your first trimester — and what should be playing but the movie of the book.

Clearly, I was particularly hormonal at the time, but the memory of that trip to the movies continues to haunt me.

The story is obviously a highly emotive one, however, when you watch the movie in the company of a mainly Jewish audience, their reaction stays with you forever.

A few years ago, I managed to persuade my husband to accompany me to a talk at the Sydney Writer’s festival where the author, Thomas Keneally, was interviewing another author. I was keen to put a face to the words of a book that wielded so much power over my thinking and beliefs during my younger years. Little did I know back in my twenties when I was living in the UK, that not only was the author an Australian, but that he lived only a couple of kilometres from where we live now.

And Keneally is a true character, befitting his reputation as a national treasure. He is one of those writers who sits passionately and publicly left of centre and is as compassionate and funny as you would hope.

My husband was appalled that I had (inadvertently) booked us front row seats, and yet during that hour in the author’s close company, (as hubbie wriggled restlessly in his seat next to me), I hung onto every word that came out of his mouth. It was one of those rare “moments” in life where everything came together — literally from London, to New York, and onto Sydney.

If only I had known as a child that one day I would be sat at a writers festival, sitting metres away from my icon and the matchmaker of my marriage.

Le destin is what the French call it.

I do have one terrible admission when it comes to books, though. I am one of those terrible people who can never remember the names of authors or the titles of their books. I couldn’t even tell you who wrote the book I’m reading now, or its title, even though I’m enjoying it. And often, I will start a book and only realise a third of the way through that I’ve read it before.

And yet, there’s something quite wonderful about reading a book twice. It’s like bumping into an old friend, who gently unearths those precious memories you filed away back in another era and transports you back to places you wouldn’t ordinarily have the opportunity to visit. For me, the best stories have the ability to calm the voices in my head and lose myself for a few precious hours.

I will continue to read for the simple reason that a good book has the power change the way I live — hopefully, for the better. It’s why I will always buy books, in spite of my new minimalist ideas. They are expensive (here in Australia), but they also have the ability to change the way we think in a much healthier, organic way than social media, for example, which is why they will be top of my Christmas shopping list this year.