Reading is very cool, and it is very sexy. There is a certain magic I feel when taking the time to read a book, an almost rebellious redirection of my energy and intention - a stolen moment away from the grabbing hands of social media. Picking up my well loved, crinkle paged book during a 20 minute train journey or 5 minutes while I sit on a plastic chair in a waiting room. It would be so easy to quickly tap in my passcode and be met with a torrent of being told how to be chic, whether I need botox or how to make banana bread. I know it will fill the time. But it will be boring.

We have been fed the idea that fiction and reading for joy is ‘childlike’ and not anywhere near as good a use of time as reading about how to make money, wake up at 5am or how one glass of wine may make you podcast badly. I truly think this over-optimisation of every corner of our lives goes hand in hand with our loss of joy, individuality, and ultimately - our imagination. Something we are so painfully lacking in. Imagination, again, has a childlike connotation to it. What is the use in dreaming? We are taught to ignore our inner child, they don’t make us money, so how could they be helpful to us? We must monetise, optimise, strategise our every hobby, passion and thought. To do something purely for joy is selfish and lazy. So we should do it.

I have loved to read and write since I learnt how. Getting lost in the worlds of the first books I read alone: Jacqueline Wilson, Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl, to name a few - a home for the dreamers. I truly believed the character Sophie in the BFG was written for me. I still partly believe this. I have tried so hard as I’ve gotten older to hold on tightly to my inner child and wandering imagination. The little girl who looked for shapes in the clouds, collected woodlice and told everyone she had definitely seen a mermaid. I still feel close to her, minus collecting woodlice. (I do still quietly smile to myself whenever I see one) These worlds are still reflected in the books I love to read today. Nostalgia, yearning, a sense of longing and questioning. The magic of somebody else’s mind. I live there.

I could (and will) go on and on and on about the benefits of reading fictional stories. If a self-bettering reason must be required, lets reframe imagination as - EMPATHY. Fictional stories invite you to understand another characters innermost thoughts, why they act the way they do, how they love, how they feel. We are constantly fed an algorithm cherry picked just for us, told we are the main character and to work tirelessly on ourselves, for ourselves. But (in my opinion) living in somebody else’s world, being forced to sit with them, is a far more inner challenging experience than any self help book could ever provide. Reading fiction will help you better understand your friends, your relationships and yourself.

It takes some time to find your flow with reading, as with most habit building, the starting is the hardest part. I read every night before bed, a non-negotiable end to my day. I look forward to this time as the evening draws in, sometimes feeling like it is the first real deep breath I’ve taken all day. A slow unwind, a dividing point between work, life, everything the day brings, and sleep. 5-10 minutes of reading a day is enough to make you fall in love, de-stress and become a more empathetic, smarter, overall sexier person. Pretty self optimising if you ask me.

A few to get you started:

Happy reading <3

I hold the stories of the women of Greek Mythology very closely, they are amongst some of my favourite books I have ever read. I knew these women were to be somewhat of a side story in this adaptation, stepping stones in Odysseus's larger journey home, as they often have been throughout history. Nothing about Samantha Morton’s portrayal of Circe felt like a side story.

I eagerly awaited the arrival to her island. “This is Circe’s bit.” I whispered, as their ship approached the land, leaving behind a vast stretch of sea on the ginormous imax screen. An excitement to see these women who have (until now) existed only in my imagination, through the beautiful re-tellings of Madeline Miller, Jennifer Saint and Natalie Haynes, to name a few. There is of course always a slight fear when seeing your favourite stories brought to screen. Will it be how you imagined it? Will it be worse? Or will it be Samantha Morton?

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She offers the hungry men food, drink and a safe place to shelter. No exchange, no sacrifice on their part. An expectance that she is theirs for the taking. lol. As they gobble the food, so fast they can’t breathe - Circe delicately yet horrifyingly begins to mould their faces, sculpting them by hand, slowly contorting from human, to something almost human, to finally - a small herd of snorting pigs. (This scene is absolutely incredible and I can’t wait to rewatch it over and over) (Also done without CGI, double incredible.)

A collective smirk across my (and every woman in the rooms) face as the line “go back to your disguises” is calmly delivered as Circe begrudgingly returns Odysseus's men back to their human form. I actually relish in how lost some of this scene may have been on the male audience. Such small tender whispers of female rage. Not loud, not Zeus’s thunder, but all the more powerful and dangerous for being so.

She was more human than I had pictured, at first I felt almost disappointed that she wasn’t quite as mystical as I had been expecting, not as glittering as within the walls of my imagination. In hindsight, this scene is so hard hitting because it is so realistic. Without the distraction of flailing highlighted locks of hair or a golden push up bra, she is you or I. How often have we wished it were as simple as moulding men who have tried to harm us into pigs, lions or deer. The world would be a zoo.

Circe has throughout history been written as a devious temptress, a puppeteer of these ‘poor, merciless men’ who stumble across her island. Turning men into animals for her own thrill — it doesn’t take 3000 years to figure out why she felt they were better suited within the skin of pigs. Nolan’s take on her was modern, beautifully written and all together more dangerous. She is in control. Quietly, boldly, totally in control. Powerful women are witches, powerful men are heroes. She strikes before she can be struck. A beautiful portrayal of men taking what isn’t theirs, eating the food, drinking the wine. A display of consumption, greed and the appetites of these men, unable to see the gravitas of their actions until the world is on fire. Ring any bells?

Although a short scene, she is a vessel for Nolan’s re-imagined story for Odysseus, an integral part of his journey, both home and to his own moral forgiveness. The decision to not develop their relationship further, as it is originally (I assume mostly due to time) allowed a moment of reflection for Odysseus, as he starts to see himself, and his men for what they are, and what they have done. A mirror held up by Circe. The feature of this beautiful quote (below) was another of my favourite scenes, perfectly placed as they sail past the enticing sirens. The placing of this quote almost split the film into two halves for me, from the destroy, take and conquer, to the redemption, guilt and the healing. (Although he did then hang out at the beach with Calypso for seven years, classic).

Christopher Nolan is often criticised for only being able to write strong, powerful men while often pushing women to the side of his big stories. In this instance, I have to disagree. I loved the portrayal of the women in this story, although their parts were small, each glimpse into their pain, sacrifice and suffering felt real and strong. The short scenes with Helen of Troy were powerful and full of rage. The scars of war she wears on her face, a permanent reminder of the men who failed her, using her as a pawn in their bigger game - to destroy. Lupita Nyong'o is absolutely radiant and sensational, I would truly go to war for her.

There is still so much more to be explored in these women’s stories, the surface barely scratched. The depth of community, sisterhood and the sacrifices of women that have allowed men to be great, could never be condensed into 2 hours, 52 minutes.

I will leave you with a reading list for some beautiful, tender re-tellings of these stories:

⋆Circe - Madeline Miller

⋆Elektra - Jennifer Saint

⋆A Thousand Ships - Natalie Haynes

⋆Stone Blind - Natalie Haynes

⋆The Silence of The Girls - Pat Barker

I have just ordered The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood, a further exploration of Penelope’s story. I can’t give my review on it yet - but if anybody can write women’s stories, its Margaret Atwood.

The year is 2014, my hair is bleached within an inch of its life, a rosy glow remains from a faded Bleach London ‘the big pink’ toner done over the summer holidays. I am picking my chipped black nail polish as the teacher asks a room full of uninterested teenagers: ‘what do you want to do when you leave school?’ The queasy feeling that today might be You Are an Adult Now: Chapter One. An awkward stage to say the least, only just a caterpillar, planning to be a butterfly.

I felt somewhat excited for this next stage of life, always cynical when people would proclaim that ‘these are the best days of your life!’ I sincerely hoped not. I was correct. As a late September baby, the third oldest in my school year, with a sister five years older than me - I was ready for ‘real life’. There was a big beautiful creative world waiting for me. I just had to decide what that looked like. I was pretty set on a creative career of some description. The options: a photographer, a tattoo artist, a makeup artist, an illustrator, or very briefly - a mortician. I still think this would be a great career path later in life (and I can recommend you some great books on it).

I digress.

I didn’t read Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Bell Jar’ until years later, but her renowned ‘The Fig Tree’ chapter immediately put words to a feeling I had known on that day and has rung true ever since: I want to do it all. I had just fallen deeply in love with Kat Von D (when she was cool and didn’t set peoples rentals alight) and for the first time in my life, I saw a woman doing it all, breaking the imaginary box so often placed around us. She ran the biggest tattoo shop in the world at the time, a self named beauty line, all while renovating a gothic castle with a black flower garden. Never niching down. I didn’t realise at the time quite how much of an impact this had had on who I would become.

Fast forward to 2020, I became a tattoo artist and the face of KVD beauty’s worldwide campaign in ‘22 - I guess you could say she was on my shoulder.

Back to 2014/15, I had just begun posting on social media. It was a relatively new concept and definitely not considered a career path in the way it is today. A beautiful golden bubble of ABH dip brow, the first brand trips to Bora Bora and Zoella’s Primark hauls. I quickly gained a following, many of whom are still here today - crazy. A carousel or reel wasn’t yet in our vocabulary, no hooks in the first three seconds, no tiktok shop. A single feed image of what you’d gotten for your birthday, with a slightly murky Valencia filter layered on top was enough. I can only imagine there was a similar feeling in Las Vegas during the glory days, before they got a Hard Rock Cafe.

A lot has happened in between (I’ll save that for the book) but I am still here. Almost 12 years later, a tattoo artist by trade, a content creator by every other quotation, renovating my first home by the English seaside, turning twenty-seven next month. Doing it all. Spinning multiple plates, occasionally dropping and smashing a few, but now with the knowledge and belief in myself that I will pick them up and glue them back together. I have achieved more than I ever set out to, not just professionally, but personally too. I am in my favourite chapter of my life right now, and it’s taken a lot of work to get here.

Unsurprisingly, I was criticised quite heavily in the early days of my tattoo apprenticeship by mostly shock - older men. They didn’t quite understand what I was doing. A 19 year old girl, seemingly a child to them, entering their precious territory. People are naturally eager to put others into boxes, often to appease their own fear of change or growth. I had no fear of either. “Is she a tattoo artist or an influencer??” Although it was only seven years ago, the two had only just begun to mix. These men, of course, now make terrible reels, but that is none of my concern. I more importantly, had some incredible mentors and artists who took me under their wing, nurtured me and helped me grow. To them I am always thankful. A promise to myself to always support, encourage and be patient with young people, as I know how much it meant to me at that time.

I don’t often look back on my personal achievements as, for one, there is a slight British icky-ness around doing so. But also because I am constantly more excited for the future and whatever comes next. One thing I am eternally proud of however, is for always doing exactly what I wanted. Not always easy in an industry that rewards conformity. We are constantly told to ‘pick a niche’ ‘hone in on your niche’. While this can be a helpful place to start when creating content, do not let it limit you. I don’t know a single interesting person who could ‘niche down’. They are, as I am, as is everyone, multi-faceted and the owner of many figs. What makes a person interesting is rarely the thing they present most to the world. I love to see the corners that aren’t always on display, what genuinely inspires a person, what scares them. Not because it’s trendy, but because they feel it. Embrace your figs, hold them close.

Five years ago, on a beautiful sandy beach in Greece, book in hand - I ordered a deliciously oily lunch to my sun-lounger from a restaurant called Philosophia (amazing filo feta if you ever find yourself in Pefkos, btw). I thought ‘wow, that would be a great name if ever I started a podcast.’ I am however, not an insufferable man — so here is my substack.

if you’re new here, hello <3 and if you’re one of the special four - i love u, you are my personal ABBA.

I’ve been in the content-verse for a little over ten!!! years (yuck), a somewhat veteran of an ever changing, often overwhelming, giant of an industry - having a precious corner of the internet that feels like it belongs to me has always been the priority. Holding space (in the least defying gravity way) for what feels truly me, resisting feeding what the algorithm has begged tirelessly for, and holding onto what I first loved about creating all those years ago. This feels the closest thing to a tumblr homecoming, sans Oli Sykes thirst traps. An intimate, peaceful space to share a little more of my thoughts and feelings, what’s inspiring me, and to hopefully bring you a tiny piece of calm amongst the spinning and scrolling and spinning and scrolling.

It should be fun, and if it isn’t - blame ABBA. x