Cleopatra and Frankenstein

 I read Coco Mellors' debut novel Cleopatra and Frankenstein without recommendation or review - which was a rare moment for me. The artful cover enticed me and I wanted it on my shelves immediately. Happy to say there've been no regrets in that purchase. 

The book depicts the messiness of one's 20s, with Cleo being young and finding her way and true self in life. It ends with Cleo eventually settling down in Paris or Rome or some place like that and her being in this true sense of calm and collected, finally having found her calling in life. 

I think about that book often and sometimes wonder when it will catch up to me, if some parts will come relatable to me at all. Some - the urge to make a name for yourself, the maddening need to ensure you're on the right path to becoming a useful person in society, the sense of loss thinking that you're not doing something useful in your life - have made a home in my mind and find myself battling them regularly. Sometimes these thoughts can be so overwhelming that I have the urge to start tweaking on the floor, just twitching and screaming. 

There are so many self help books out there, and my theory is that people write and put those books out there as self assurance to tell themselves that they've got this and they've figured it out and so it makes them eligible to yap about their lives and how they've made it. I don't think anyone's made it though. I think we're all just floating about in our insecurity, making do with whatever nuggets of reassurance we can make for ourselves, or, in the rare occasion, others can provide.