Bookish Vibes

from the other side of the screen may 2026

[a column for Creation Magazine's CM Editorial House]

I have always felt the most inspired by love—or the loss of it. There is a manuscript hidden in the depths of my Google Drive that has been collecting metaphorical dust for years, a majority of which I wrote while living with some of my closest friends. There is a collection of poetry printed on pages and stuffed in a box somewhere which unravels my first ever heartbreak. Everyone I have ever loved is in possession of a handmade gift, a painting, a drawing. 

This love has always been my driving force for creating. But, I have had years go by where the only creative thing I have done is make a birthday card with a little doodle on it. There have equally been as many, if not more, frenzies of experimentation. I remember sitting in my closet—about eight years old—determined to get a novel out of my head. Or, being thirteen and curious about the different effects that chalk pastel can achieve; twenty and addicted to the steady rhythm of embroidery, twenty-two and so sad that verse was my only relief. 

These days, however, I struggle to find that well within. 

I live with chronic pain that inhibits my ability to function like a “normal” person. Days slip past when I am so brain-fogged all I can do is stare at the wall. Other days are lived from my bed, my body weighed down with the fatigue of always being in pain. The times when I am most functional are a game of catch up. 

So where does this leave creativity? Forgotten, set aside, pushed down. 

In last month’s column I mentioned my visit to my family home in California. While I was there, I gathered up all the discs I could find of my former life as a competitive dancer and brought them back to England with me. I have spent weeks weeding through photos and videos, digitising my performances and reliving memories that I had buried. 

For a long time I couldn’t bring myself to visit that time in my life because the videos activated harsh self-criticism. All I saw was the flaws, I couldn’t step back and see the beauty in the hard work, the collaboration, and the physicality. As I watch now, I experience flashes of memory. Incomplete and faded, these flashes remind me of the constant pain I felt, both physically and mentally. 

My lungs strain, burning with the labor of keeping up with me as I fight to keep going. My muscles pull, stretch, and shake with the strain of contorting my body into the correct shapes. My body is slick with sweat even though we’ve just started warm-ups. Do it again. And again. And one more time. Last time, they promised. 

I can still smell the bath products I used when I soaked in magnesium for hours every week to try and alleviate just some of the pain. I remember sitting in class trying not to let it show, unable to keep still or the hurt would settle in. My brother still reminds me of the times I walked up and down stairs one at a time—hunched like a ninety year old—because my hips felt like they were going to snap. The constant dull ache in my lower back pulses, remembering with me. 

Sometimes I still slip into the negative self-talk that was narrated in my head. If I wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t good enough. A stumble, falling out of a pirouette, or even just not leaping quite as high as the day before felt like failure. I had to push, mind and body, only to criticize myself further.

My body has mistaken art for pain, creating for sacrifice. My soul aches for the pursuit of perfection and the bitter punishment of its impossibility.

This time rewatching, however, I can also see the twinkle in her eye, that younger version of me who loved to perform. She put her all into everything, balancing homework with rehearsals and studying for tests with remembering choreography. I see determination, drive, and discipline. I see a girl who sparkles with love for the art and athleticism of dancing, who shines under a stage light. What I need to get through my perfectionist head, however, is that I am still that girl. 

The structure and demand of being a dancer may be gone; that path not taken feels like a story, not my life. My muscles have atrophied and so my incompetent connective tissues struggle to hold me together. 

Rewatching these videos was painful because it reminded me of what I can’t do anymore. But, I miss it. I miss being a part of someone else’s creative vision. I miss learning and accomplishing new things. I miss being on a stage and performing, leaving myself in the wings. Most of all, I miss feeling strong. 

from the other side of the screen april 2026

[a column for Creation Magazine's CM Editorial House]

Last month I spent two weeks with my family in California. The drive from SFO to the Bay Bridge was littered with billboards advertising Artificial Intelligence. Fifteen years or so ago, some of those billboards showed iconic images of blacked-out figures dancing against a bright background, easily identified as iTunes and Apple products. There was more variety, both in the products being advertised and the slogans shouting down to the freeway. 

Now, everything is AI all the time. Advertising looks the same for products that do similar things on the many, many billboards dotting the route out of the city. Contrasting colors, similar sans serif fonts, and short, snappy slogans that all sound the same. 

My university briefly tried to embrace AI. For the 2024-25 academic year I had to submit a cover page with each essay to declare the use of AI. As long as you declared it, it was okay. I never partook, but many students freely used AI to skate through a Master’s degree. Since the start of the new academic year, however, the university’s departments in Humanities and Social Sciences do not tolerate AI use at all. 

For creatives especially, the growing and normalized use of AI is terrifying. Logging onto LinkedIn means confronting a long list of “writing jobs” that are really just training AI. And how long is that stable for? Not a life-long career, just long enough to make oneself redundant and pushed into a soul-sucking job they never wanted and will never love. 

But, we have to ask if AI is really replacing us completely. Can a mathematical formula really replicate poetry or love?

On the plane into SFO, just before the Great Assault of AI billboards, I finally watched Materialists (2025). What does this romance movie starring nepo-baby Dakota Johnson and handsome leading men Pedro Pascal and Chris Evans have to do with this? Don’t worry, put those Hokas on and walk with me a minute here.

To give the run-down for those of you who don’t know, Dakota plays a matchmaker who sees people as numbers (age, salary, education) until she is forced to confront this in a decision between Pedro’s perfect-on-paper finance man or Chris’s perfectly-imperfect struggling actor. Online conversations seemed to miss the whole point with commentary such as—and I’m paraphrasing here—why would anyone choose a broke, failed actor over a rich Pedro Pascal? 

Well, just as it is clearly shown in the movie which apparently no one actually paid attention to, there is more to love than a formula. Humans cannot be simply quantified, reduced to a bullet-pointed list of numbers put through an algorithm. 

Humanity, life experience, and art all come from an indescribable place that no AI can unpuzzle. Matchmaking isn’t an exact science, so what makes these tech giants think that they can write enough zeroes and ones to convincingly replicate intimacy, irrationality, emotion, and creation? What is poetry if not love and its inverse pricked into the page?

The world of publishing has recently experienced a major AI-plagiarism scandal around Shy Girl by Mia Ballard. The cover and 70% of the book’s contents have apparently been generated by AI. Now, I’ve read this book. It came across my screen on NetGalley in the “most requested” list after a publisher picked it up (originally self-published). 

The premise of a woman being forced to act like a dog for so long that she finally became convinced she actually was a dog appealed to me. I expected a nuanced dive into the perpetual subjugation and dehumanization of women, particularly women of color, in western society. I expected an acknowledgment of slavery and human trafficking, uncomfortable because American history is ugly and we need to be reminded. 

What I didn’t expect was a rotation of the same 3 descriptive words that didn’t grammatically or metaphorically work. Or the complete blind eye turned towards the implications of a white man kidnapping and abusing a poor Black woman. Or the sensationalized violence and harm to the female body. I found myself uncomfortable not because of the subject matter, but from the lack of any real substance.

I find AI writing offensive in the fact that it is just plainly not good. I found this particular instance excessively offensive because AI does not have the capability to be sensitive. In lacking humanity and love, AI lacks compassion and empathy. Any poem, novel, or essay written by AI will be devoid of what has made writing an essential aspect of human culture. 

Shy Girl wasn’t able to achieve any of its goals because it cannot feel. It cannot feel the pain, or the triumph, it fails to describe. It cannot feel pride in telling a story that people will connect with; it cannot feel the generational abuses that informed the generator prompt and should have further informed the novel throughout. 

If you can’t write, don’t. If you can’t paint, don’t. At the risk of sounding like a grumpy, GenZ iteration of Fran Lebowitz (who is problematic in her own right), not everybody can have talent. AI is not a shortcut past the hard work and discipline it takes to be a creative, and it cannot inject creativity where it is not already extant. 

Just as AI cannot replicate love, it cannot imitate neurodivergence which is, in many cases, the true source of creativity. It could never see the world through a neurodivergent lens which is indescribable and indefinable. 

I’m tired of having AI shoved in my face. From the AI-summary at the top of every Google search to the hundreds of billboards on my way home from the airport, it’s inescapable. It's ugly and exhausting and cringe. Not chic at all. 

from the other side of the screen march 2026

[a column for Creation Magazine's CM Editorial House]

I view adaptation as a form of translation—rather than a translation between languages, adaptations translate art between mediums. It is never perfect but, just like translating language, adaptation can be successful in conveying the essence of a piece in every form. 

A dance based on a painting may excite the same person in similar ways through a completely different set of tools. Similarly, translating books to screen is an art form in its own right. Words on a page that stimulate the imagination will tickle different parts of the soul than a projection of imagery complete with dialogue and music. 

This Winter has been bursting with adaptation; from Heated Rivalry and Percy Jackson and the Olympians (Season 2) to “Wuthering Heights” (2026), there has been no shortage of book-to-screen translations. 

Heated Rivalry, being the best example, has created a beautiful sense of community at a time where it feels like there is no common ground to be had. Beneath the TikTok edits being shown in clubs worldwide, HR is successful because it allows its essence to shine through. A horrifically written book has been re-molded into a TV show that is addictive and exciting, yes, but more importantly, a cultural phenomenon ripe with meaning (that is only more impactful since the USA Men's hockey team post-Olympic Games celebrations). 

Percy Jackson 2, however, has the opposite problem. A book series that shaped a generation is pinching and squeezing itself to remain relevant. Consequently, the most important aspects of the book series are getting chopped. What was once a thrilling read has, on the screen, become a stale imitation that crumbles under a strong breeze. 

“Wuthering Heights” is perhaps the most unsuccessful adaptation I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing. This is not because it isn’t a word-for-word replica of the original. This is because the film wholly rejects its source material in favor of vacuous aestheticism that celebrates the submission of women and eroticizes a notoriously evil man.

Emerald Fennell has—in my humble opinion—bastardized a monumental piece of literary history in favor of a “romance” that isn’t even convincing. Race, class, obsession, and generational abuse, the lifeblood of the novel, have all been sacrificed for the sake of a bodice-ripper that is shockingly tame after all the hype. 

Translation is inherently political—the English and Spanish speaking countries across the Americas are an obvious example of this. Colonization often begins with language, suppressing the tongue that carries culture, tradition, and identity.

As an Oxford-educated, silver-spoon elite, Fennell has shown us all that status doesn’t hold any merit with her block-busting money pit of anti-intellectualism. Her adaptation of “Wuthering Heights” shows exactly how translation can be used for silence. 

While we’re at it, let me just say that yes, Emerald Fennell is in the wrong here, but I don’t think Jacob Elordi is getting enough criticism for saying yes to this role. I can’t help but wonder if Fennell getting almost all of the criticism is showing the deep misogyny still rampant today. 

from the other side of the screen february 2026

[a column for Creation Magazine's CM Editorial House]

Single woman looking for a hole to burrow in. 

The world feels as though it is falling apart and reinventing itself every day. Conflicts rage, death tolls tick higher and higher. Cries for help come from every corner. And still, half the world’s population behaves as if they're completely oblivious. Red carpets roll, trends revolve faster and faster. 

It’s enough to make someone feel overcome. I feel the dread climb up from my toes every day, clinging to the walls of my lungs and closing in at the throat. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels the primal urge to run and hide as a means for survival.

That’s not the brave thing to do, though, is it? 

Even scholars of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table struggle to agree on a universal definition of bravery. It is a malleable concept that evolves with societal expectations, personal experiences, and circumstance. Not quite a feeling, bravery is a choice to persevere through fear in order to do the right thing. 

Because fear is perhaps the most personal feeling of all, your bravery is completely unique to you. 

Creating is an act of bravery, and creating art in purposeful resistance is another. Demonstrating, protesting, campaigning, remembering. Finding community when all you want to do is hide. These braveries add up, stacking the odds in favor of goodness.

So, when it all feels like too much to tackle, small acts of bravery and resistance add to the ever-growing movement. Share your art and writings. Re-post Renee Good’s poetry, maybe even add your own. 

And in exchange, when I feel like folding myself up into a walnut shell, I will remember that ice melts. Fires die. Rain falls and flowers bloom. The fight is powered by Hope waiting at the finish line.

Single woman looking for a hole to burrow in. 

from the other side of the screen january 2026

[a column for Creation Magazine's CM Editorial House]

The Gregorian calendar places the new year in a seemingly arbitrary darkness, at least for us in the Northern Hemisphere. A dart thrown at the sun’s orbit to determine the reset point of the cycle. Rather than the first bloom of spring or the decay of autumn, we end and begin the new year in the middle of a blank, cold dark. 

Perhaps the purifying snow of colder climates signifies a fresh start. Perhaps the dead landscape is ready to revive and flourish. 

Perhaps the short days and long nights represent the nothing from which all is created. The blackness of the sky is a reminder of the emptiness that came before the Big Bang. Perhaps it tickles the recesses of the mind where ideas are born. This emptiness, where humans find inspiration to fill space, is the perfect time to redefine oneself.

I believe that this is where poetry comes from, not just stories and fantasies but also ugly truths come out to play on the page. And I think that this is where the urge to name new year resolutions comes from; hours upon hours of darkness out the window causes one to look inward for entertainment instead. 

What is art but introspection made manifest? And is a new year resolution a piece of the inner darkness brought into the open to be reshaped? The only constant in life is change; the end of a cycle to bring new beginnings. It is distinctly human to be mutable and it is this mutability that allows one to create and another to be affected. 

This is—I think—what we are doing here at Creation. As writers ourselves we dive into our own depth. But as editors we must be willing to meet another person’s storm and be brave enough to help shape it. 

We began the year with mere ideas for blank pages, our accepted pieces floating constellations that had not yet found their place. Next month we will have a complete magazine, printed and tangible. And we will do it again, continuing the cycle from dark to light, imagination to fruition.

It is a beautiful process to be a part of, one that I cherish because of the way it affects and inspires me. I wonder what the rest of this year—and the next issue—will bring. Rather, I wonder what will be born from the dark?

from the other side of the screen december 2025

[a column for Creation Magazine's CM Editorial House]

Last month I wrote to you all about my thoughts on Fever as our upcoming theme. Now I'd like to continue that conversation with an old one—music and in relation to poetry. 

At the end of November, I was lucky enough to attend Lorde's Ultrasound Tour in Birmingham, UK. I have written previously about how a record can become strongly associated with projects in my head. This has been true for the manuscripts I have edited with CM Editorial House, and it is true for the Fever Issue. 

Lorde's most recent album – Virgin – explores the frenzy of ovulation, the sickness of body dysmorphia, the plague of failed love, the raw obsession of proving oneself, and so many more aspects of being a woman. Somewhat experimental and yet extremely relatable. 

The reason why I bring this concert experience to the newsletter is because of the power of art. Standing in the center of a sold-out 15,000 capacity stadium, screaming the lyrics in unison, reminds you that life is communal. We thrive when art brings us together; we do not have to be slaves to the individualistic capitalism that drives nails between us. 

Between songs (before "Liability", iykyk) Lorde said she was amazed to remember "that so many people could love someone with so much inside of them". Everyone contains multitudes, some more turbulent than others. But what makes us unique should not be tamped into a mold that doesn't fit; expression through your chosen art form can become a magnet that pulls like-minded, love-filled people towards you. 

The mere idea that I could have had a hand in selecting a poem for this issue that makes a reader or poet feel this way is what motivates me. It is what I love about poetry and what I hold dear as an editor. It is such a privilege to be a like-minded, love-filled reader that platforms voices that contain so much inside of them. 

[a column for Creation Magazine's CM Editorial House]

November 2025 – On Volume 09: A Fever Issue

When I learned that Fever is the theme for our next issue, my brain spun out in the best way possible. Images of being overtaken—by love, pain, illness, wonder, passion—came to the surface. Absolute captivation and consumption, being eaten alive. 

Overall, the top word in my mind is yearning. While this is typically associated with romance, I find it to be the perfect, all-consuming descriptor. One can yearn to be loved, but one can also yearn to feel “normal”—whatever that means.

If you’re like me, you may yearn to live without pain every day. Or, you could yearn for community, for health, for nutrition, for immunity. You could yearn for anything and everything.

Yearning is a constant ache, the gentle pain that sometimes becomes your only comfort. It hides in the back of your mind, scratching at your skull so that you never forget that tiny monster inside. It is hungry and desperate and melancholy, but it can be angry and abstract.

To me, this perfectly describes the idea behind Volume 09. It is a delirious, feverish exploration of life’s pleasures and pains. A love that hurts so good, a bittersweet end, the sad hope for new beginnings that are nowhere in sight. Bedridden or constant motion, the pace will change with each turn of the page.

The inspiration took me like a hurricane—a fever of its own kind. There is a lot of content coming to you in the upcoming weeks that I am excited to share. As a newsletter subscriber, you have exclusive early access to the playlist using the button below.

Pearl by Sian Hughes. USA publish date: August 6 2024. Long-listed for the 2023 Booker Prize.

Summary: Marianne's mother disappeared mysteriously when she was a child. Pearl is a meditation on growing up, missing one's mother, and mourning a childhood that ended too soon. Marianne's life unfolds, but continues to be haunted by her mother's songs and stories.

Review: My favorite read so far this year. Reflective and emotional, Marianne's memories build a rich life full of discovery, confusion, and pain that lifts off the page, exquisitely plotted and written.

We Shall Be Monsters by Tara Sim. Publishing June 25, 2024.

This book had me by the tagline, "Frankenstein meets Indian mythology." 

Kajal, the protagonist, is a young woman that feels all too familiar in her self-criticism. She constantly confronts her flaws, reflecting in response to the plot. Her world is a well-crafted blend of Hindu, Buddhist, and Sikh myth that beautifully represents the diversity of India. Each character feels real in the imagination. Actions have motivations that become clear over the course of the book. 

I was truly impressed with this novel; the world-building, character development, and story arc are all well developed and interesting. I will be passing this on to my teen sister! 

Annie Bot by Sierra Greer. Published March 19, 2024.

Summary: Annie is a Cuddle Buddy, a sex-box imbued with AI so that she can learn how to best accommodate her owner. Over the course of the novel, Annie become self-aware and understands her own wants and needs.

Review: Annie's journey is very clearly inspired by Frankenstein's creature. Not only is she learning social cues and how to blend in, but she is learning to think, dream, and desire. It is eerily similar to coming of age as a young, human woman in America.

As a bookseller I have noticed that many books are too long, sacrificing the story for the author's ego. Most new releases could have done with a stronger editor to remove all of the extra weight. This is not the case for Annie Bot. I found myself fully immersed in Annie's world without unnecessarily bloated description. Greer is a fantastic writer, able to communicate what she means clearly and concisely. Annie Bot is a must read for readers and writers alike.

Photo by bridget [@/folkllore] on Pinterest

Summary: Daphne's fiance leaves her for his supermodel-level hot childhood best friend. With nowhere else to go, she moves in with the childhood friend's ex, whom she dumped to be with Daphne's fiance. Miles and Daphne grieve their relationships from adjacent rooms in the same apartment while Daphne counts down the days until she can escape this small Michigan town.

Review: Online I have seen many comparisons drawn between Miles and Nick Miller from New Girl. I really don't agree with this at all. Not only is Miles more driven and organized, he is actually connected to his feelings and wants. Daphne, on the other hand, is not nearly as "sunshine and rainbows" as Jess. She is not a manic pixie dream girl and feels real in her journey of building a life for herself before jumping into another relationship.

Overall, I absolutely loved this book. With layered characters who discover themselves through friendship and adventure, this romance is a great introduction to understanding which kinds of love are acceptable and which are not. I highly recommend this to anyone in their 20's who are still trying to understand their place in the world, but more specifically the dating world.

I got to see Justinian Huang speak at the CALIBA Spring Forum this year. He is a wonderful person and now that I’ve read his book, I’m even more impressed. Though I received this book for free, I am reviewing on my own volition.

This is a beautiful tale of fate threaded with Asian culture, history, and mythology. An emperor and his lover reunite every lifetime, yet the curse of betrayal continues to haunt them through the millennia.

I was at first a little surprised at the sheer amount of sexual content, however it is so clearly an accurate representation of delayed discovery that so many queer people experience. And, it’s proof that Asians have always been, and always be, sexy.