I am the author of this novel and I have lied to you, and taken unhealthy pleasure in lying to you, and I will continue to lie to you until you beg for more.

-This is a book for book people.
-What do you mean by ‘book people’? Anyone who reads books must be a book person surely?
-No, I mean more than that. I mean people who read a lot...
-Many people read a lot.
-It’s not just about reading a lot. I’m not sure how to express it..it’s that they live to read and they read to live. That’s what I mean, I think..
-That sounds a bit extreme. Who'd want to be a writer for such ‘book people’? Wouldn’t they be inclined to criticize everything they read, what with all that intense ‘living for books’ stuff going on?
-Oh no, I think 'book people' are the perfect readers for a certain kind of writer, and I’d count the author of this book in that group.
-So you're saying there’s a special group of ‘writer people’ too.
-Exactly. Writers who know how to open up the narrative and invite the readers in.
-You mean metafiction? Loads of writers do that.
-It's more than that. It’s as if they not only acknowledge the reader’s presence, and therefore the fictional nature of the narrative, but they show him how it is done, the inner workings, allowing the reader to be present as the book gets written, as this bit is tweaked and that bit reworked.
-Hmm, like being in an artist’s studio as he paints a picture?
-Yes, sort of. Painting is actually a good example. We are all used to the kind of art where the surface is all there seems to be. We only get to see the ‘finished’ product. The artist doesn’t choose to reveal the stages the painting went through in the making. He hides all that. The painting fills the canvas right to the edges and there’s little hint of any self-questioning, hesitation or rethink along the way.
-So?
-Then there’s another kind of art where the artist doesn’t care if we see the traces of the colour he began with but mostly painted over, or the object he changed his mind about but which we can see in shadow, or the blanks in the canvas which he didn’t paint at all. It’s finished but ‘unfinished’. There’s room for the viewer to imagine things in it, to turn away and come back and then see other things entirely, to really participate in it, not just glance at it and walk on by.
-And this writer’s book is like that, you think?
-Yes, he definitely belongs to the group of writers who allow the reader to participate in the reading.
-So, I’m curious, how did you participate in the reading of this book?
-For a start, I kind of watched myself reading it. I know that’s bizarre but I did.
-You’re right, it is bizarre and a little incomprehensible.
-The updates I posted while reading bear me out, as well as the comments I made on those updates. It was like an out-of-body experience. There was the 'me' who was reading and commenting, and then there was the 'me' who was inside the narrative, walking about touching everything, lifting things up to examine them from underneath.
-But what if this was just your particularly quirky way of reading, and nothing at all to do with the book. Other readers might not read it that way - they might just look at the surface and pass on.
-I don't think there’s any way to give this book only a ‘surface’ read. I think you'd fail to read it if you tried. The writer works hard to draw you in. In fact, he’s watching you read the book. You have a thought while reading a certain bit and then he tells you that thought. It’s a strange experience but quite fascinating.
-Now you’re just being absurd. Listen, I can’t sit around all day indulging your inanities. I’ve got updates to read, links to click on. In fact I’ve got better reviews to read and comment on, if you must know..
-But wait. The word 'absurd' is important. While I was reading this book, I took a bet with someone that I’d find parallels between it and the other books I was reading, and I did.
-Make an absurd bet and you’re bound to get an absurd result, I’d say.
-But the author actually mentions one of the writers I was reading, and I discovered that his previous book has been compared to the other author I’ve been reading. And those are just the most obvious connections.
-Ok. Enough with the silly mysteries. What exactly are you saying?
-I’m saying that I found elements in this book that reminded me of aspects of both Flann O’Brien’s writing and Rabelais’ writing. For example, the author loves alphabetical lists and wordplay just as Rabelais does, and he has a way of turning ordinary statements around to show how ridiculous they are the way O’Brien does...
-What’s the name of this book again? The House of Writers? And you only found echoes of two writers in it? I think you’ve been sleeping on the job. I’m sure I’d find dozens of names in there.
-You would, you would! But would you know what the author meant when he included them? Who he was inspired by and who he was satirising?
-Enough! I know when I’m being insulted. You’re saying I’m not one of your precious ‘book people’. Well that’s just fine because I’d never want to ‘live for books’, thank you very much. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Click.

My initial acquaintance with MJ's distinctive way with words occurred when I was forcefully struck by these lines as part of our singular Scotsman's incisive review on Théophile Gautier's Mademoiselle de Maupin:

"Your plot antics are bare: a poet looking for his perfect Venus encounters hurdles in his search, finding no luck in the pink-cheeked Rosette whom he diddles for five months out of kindness. When he claps eyes on the girlish man Theodore (who happens to be a woman, but ssshhh) he finds his Venus par excellence and goes stark raving mad like all melodramatic romantic poets who want to mainline beauty into their veins."

Double wow, thinks I, "goes stark raving mad like all melodramatic romantic poets who want to mainline beauty into their veins" - what a fabulous, spot-on image, one that I wouldn't come up with if I was given a thousand cracks.

And after many other occasions to feast my glazzies on signature MJ linguistic razzle-dazzle here in book review land, I knew I'd be in for a plethora of phenomenal phonemic pleasures with The House of Writers.

Since it is now 2021 and House of Writers published back in 2016, why, you may ask, did it take me so long to get to this dance of twenty-six squigs? The answer is clear: I needed a good kick in the arse, a powerful kick-start to get me started - and I got said kick recently by reading another exuberant writer, actually one of our greatest living writers, a writer who's on that highly rarefied Nabakovian linguistic vibe: Rodrigo Fresán from Argentina.

Anyway, here I am. And I'm here to echo other loves of quality lit, reviewers like Fionnuala, Arthur, Ted (RIP), Anthony, Lee, Vit, Geoff and Nathan "N.R." Gaddis, who are over the moon about THOW. Among the many memorable reviewer quotes, take a lasting look as this one by Fionnuala:

"I’m saying that I found elements in this book that reminded me of aspects of both Flann O’Brien’s writing and Rabelais’ writing. For example, the author loves alphabetical lists and wordplay just as Rabelais does, and he has a way of turning ordinary statements around to show how ridiculous they are the way O’Brien does..."

And this one from Vit:

"If Bible is the book of books then The House of Writers is the pun of puns… The House of Writers is an ultimate postmodern opus because it boasts a record number of allusions per page of text…"

And yet again, this one from David citing HQLF (High Quality Literary Fiction):

"This book is world-class. It is one for the ages. So if you give even a brass farthing for the state of the quality of serious literature to be read by your children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, then take a lesson from "The House of Writers" and support HQLF wherever you may find it, like here."

For me, reading MJ's multifaceted, flavorful fiction brought to mind many of Raymond Queneau's exercises numbering ninety-nine - Nichollish too-rah-rah-ray spinning anagrams, onomatopoeia, alexandrines, syncope, paragoge and others that I'm sure went way over my not so linguistically nimble head.

With this in mind, I'll end by sharing a batch of scrumptious eye-catching quotes (I'll also include the title of the chapter where they came from) that might serve as your own kick-start to put your paws on MJ's post-Belcher:

THIS LEXICOGRAPHICALLY LIMBER UNIVERSE
"Are you skilled with words in an age when words are squanderously piddled down so many unthinking drains? Are you a spinner of yarns, a whirler of sagas, a rotator of epics? Do you take pride in the sibilant syllable, the luxuriant noun, the plosively placed preposition, in sentences that sing like angels in a cosmic opera?"

"Can you fill a blank page with enough razzle-dazzle, fuzzbox, and too-rah-rah-ray to make the everyday reader spurn his duncehood?"

MHAIRI
"Several writers (ex-smackheads) noticed and I had to deal with begging requests from those hoping to have their pages sprinkled with extra helpings of Big H - to turn them into instant bestsellers."

"I made a home for myself on the roof, paying a simpleton named Gerald (more on him later) to construct a small cottage overlooking the wastelands of Crarsix. If I tilt my head heavenwards on summer nights, I can glimpse a rogue star through the carcinogenic layers of toxic silt, and my heart is almost happy."

A BLAST OF KIRSTY
"As the world reverted back to a sub-hominid mental state, Scot-Call switchboards were abuzz with operatives taking on nonsensical and Cro-Magnon queries - behind these the dominant question: "Can you help me live? Over 98% of inbound queries we deal with are pointless, and since real enlightenment is a danger to the Scot-Call profit margins, we encourage operatives to devise baffling and unhelpful answers to keep people calling."

"Having said that, I prefer my torment localised. I look forward to many years torturing workers with the prospect of bonuses, raising their hopes for months on end, sacking them the day before their bonuses are due. That's the sort of buzz I crave as I work my way to the upper echelons of this magnificently evil empire."

PUFF: THE UNLOVED SON
"Satisfied that this pipe was the fattest of those he'd inserted fingers into, disappointed he couldn't insert his other hand into the pipe without going splat on the concrete, Puff shimmied back toward the windows."

"The other writers sincerely didn't want Puff to plummet and had brought blood to her tongue and scrunched her toes so tight she strained a tendon. Puff shimmied along the pipe and dropped back through the window unscathed."

THIS
"Some books obfuscate their intentions, drowning their meaning in multiple layers of ambiguities, subtleties, and intellectual mazes for the reader to unfurl. This is not one of those books."

"This one has a definite meaning and purpose, maybe, if I'm not lying, and you will not escape reading this novel without learning exactly what the author (me) intended exactly, unless I decide to lie to you, in which case, you won't."


Novelist M.J. Nicholls, born 1986

Disclaimer: I was asked to read this book pre-publication by the author and publisher to provide a promotional quote. I stand by my comments; I loved this book. Here's what I said:

I could be wrong, but I believe this novel was transmitted into the author's mind by the illegitimate love child of Bill Hicks and David Foster Wallace. Like a proverbial middle finger to the middlebrow, M.J. Nicholls has given himself the Herculean task of making fiction matter. Usurped by hacks and the hyperactivity of hyperlinks, meaningful stories have become exceedingly rare. Or, even worse, are rarely read because who got time for dat? Enter this rare novel that wages war on corporate mediocrity in a fantastical future where books are reduced to ego strokes commissioned by rich fucks. Fiction to match your sofa. Fortunately, Nicholls shreds the commoditization of our existence like a literary Tasmanian devil with razor sharp wit. Fierce​, original and delirious, The House of Writers is a comedic masterwork that defies convention.