Back to the Booker

It is 2009. I am in a holiday apartment in Bakewell, in the Peak District of England. My bedside table is stacked with six books for the week. It’s not uncommon for me to devour books when I’m not working, barely pausing to get dressed, reading whilst eating (never graceful); though even I am daunted by the collective page count, with two of them breaking the 500 page mark. I am — unbeknownst to me — about to embark on a reading odyssey that will shape my philosophy about that endeavour and change me in ways then unimaginable.

A couple of weeks before, as I’m engaging with writers on twitter for work, I notice a bit of noise about the Man Booker 2009 Prize longlist. I take a look, expecting a list of books in the hundreds. It contains thirteen books. I am underwhelmed by the number. I’ve been casting around for something different to read. An idea takes shape.

I determine that I’ll read the books on the list before the award is announced. It is August, the announcement isn’t until October. All of the writers are new to me. This list is a blank slate. I think three months is plenty of time until I start trying to get my hands on the books. I realise Summertime and Love and Summer haven’t even been published yet! I begin to sense that this task is going to take more effort than I imagine, though I can’t see the shape of it yet. The thought that this might not come easy is thrilling.

Back to the bedside: in an attempt to avoid leaving the seemingly less appealing books until last, I simply decide I’ll read by author surname…