Nonfiction is a different beast from fiction. Between 2016 and 2020, my novel reading dropped off a bit of a cliff, but I read more nonfiction than I’d ever managed to do before. Partly because that’s when I turned into a bit of a British Civil Wars anorak, and partly because, circa 2017, I discovered that as an alumna of Edinburgh University, I was still eligible for a university library card. GAME CHANGER. Of course, the game changed again in March 2020, but I live in hope that one day my borrowing privileges might be reinstated and I might be able to find some more Weird Stuff.

Ironically, there’s not a lot of civil war books in this list – mostly because I academicked my way through them, reading a chapter here and there, collating several at once.

Here they are, in order I read them, with commentary:

The Weaker Vessel – Antonia Fraser

This is the book that started it all. It’s a proper signature Fraser tome, about women in the seventeenth century: wives and mothers and daughters, medics and businesswomen and solicitors, soldiers and cooks and queens and scholars. Hang on, thought I: women did things in history? I mean, I know women did things in history, but this is the first time I looked at the past and saw my foremothers. That was it, that was all I needed. You can trace so much of my work back to this book.

How to Write a Thesis – Umberto Eco

Picture it: it’s 2016, I’ve long since given up on the thought of a PhD, but still have an absolute terror of proper academics. I’ve just fallen in love with the period 1625-1660 in the British Isles, which means I want to talk about it to everyone, constantly. There’s a logical conclusion here, and I’ve no idea where to start – but at the same time, I absolutely refuse to ask a real-life historian for help. In sidles Umberto Eco. “Come on in!” he says. “The water’s lovely! And more to the point, you can choose exactly where you want to swim.” Immediately, I go to the nearest stationer’s and purchase ten packs of 8x5 index cards.

Montrose – John Buchan

This is a biography of James Graham, the Marquis of Montrose, and it’s history from a place of grand affection. Historically speaking, it’s decent. As storytelling, it’s fab. But most of all it’s a love letter to a historical figure. I thought: I don’t want to be an academic. I don’t want to expand the edges of human knowledge. I want to do this.

Wanderlust – Rebecca Solnit

I went to a women’s business conference once where they referred to Solnit as “Saint Rebecca”. Much as my natural instinct is to go “ugh, put it away”… well. You don’t need me to tell you that she’s very, very good. “Walk and talk with Rebecca Solnit” is, remains, my weekend sorted.

How to Suppress Women’s Writing – Joanna Russ

I come back to this often: when I want to remember how to examine my biases, when I want to read someone verbally punching the whole world on behalf of Margaret Cavendish, and when it is creatively important for me to be absolutely livid.

On Identity – Amin Maalouf

The first casualty of war is not truth, but nuance, and I bought this because I wanted nuance. I got it. My biggest takeaways from this are: the biggest parts of your identity are often the ones you feel most threatened about – so I never really noticed my Englishness until I moved to Scotland; I am often a Background Christian because nobody is really yelling at me about it; every culture war in existence is magnified whenever people feel like a Thing about themselves is getting them backed into a corner. There’s more than that, obviously, but I still think about the idea often. My second takeaway: Maalouf says everyone should speak, or try to speak, three languages: their mother tongue, a diplomatic language to allow them to communicate with as many more people as possible, and a language that they love or that helps them interact with a culture that they love. As reasons for learning, I think all of that is great.

Handywoman – Kate Davies

Apart from having possibly the most beautiful cover I have ever seen, this is a memoir of creative fulfilment and understanding of one’s body. It contains a chapter called “The All-Over”, which one day I will write a proper essay on because it’s the most accurate description of how it feels to do creative work that I’ve ever seen. Kate Davies is a former literature professor, now knitting designer, writer, businesswoman. One day I shall meet her, tell her how influential her work has been for me, and make an absolute tit of myself doing it. Presumably she already knows how many copies of this book I’ve bought to give to people, because every eight months or so I get another one shipped to my house.

Ink in the Blood – Hilary Mantel

A friend sent me a Kindle copy of this in July 2019, five days after I left ICU, when I was back on the main ward and starting to try to put myself back together. I reread it every year. It has been a different book every time.

Nine Wartime Lives: Mass Observation and the Making of the Modern Self – James Hinton

This one is so cool, I did not expect to love it as much as I did. It’s eight essays on nine different people (one’s a husband and wife team) and the diaries they sent in to Mass Observation during and around the Second World War. Deep-dive character studies on real people in their own voices. There’s Nella Last, obviously, and an unstoppable force of a lady from the Women’s Institute, a conscientious objector, and perhaps most fascinatingly of all, a woman who’s dependent on her husband and really does base her self-image off his approval. In her diary. Hinton calls it a rare example of an authentic woman’s voice from inside the patriarchy. Just fascinating. I read it cover to cover and took enthusiastic notes.

You Look Like a Thing and I Love You – Janelle Shane

A great, accessible, highly readable book about artificial intelligence: the title is the AI’s idea of what a pick-up line should look like. Apart from the fact that I feel like I understand how AI fits into the rest of the world a lot better now – no mean feat, it really is an outstanding bit of science communication – I also feel like “we programmed an AI to replicate something, and it did it badly” is the pinnacle of 2020s humour. It’s a certain kind of absurdism, with a dash of affectionate anthropomorphism. Can’t beat it.