The Fault Is Not Mine

Bleak, biting, and deliberately monotonous — a novel about opting out of life that sometimes just ends up shutting the reader out too.

✍️ My Thoughts:
I picked this up because I’d heard so much about it — the cult “sad girl lit” favourite, the book where a woman decides to sleep for an entire year. The premise is bold, and on paper it’s exactly the sort of offbeat character study I usually enjoy.

But here’s the thing: the narrator is thoroughly unlikeable (deliberately so), the tone is relentlessly cynical, and the pacing mirrors her sedation — slow, repetitive, and often disorientating. I can admire Moshfegh’s commitment to the idea, but I found myself switching off long before the narrator did.

There are glimmers of brilliance. Moshfegh skewers the emptiness of early 2000s Manhattan wealth culture with a razor-sharp eye, and the black humour occasionally landed for me. But the flashes of wit weren’t enough to make up for a reading experience that felt more exhausting than engrossing.

Would I recommend it? Only if you’re very much in the mood for something dark, bitter, and still. I understand why it resonates so strongly with some readers — the themes of grief, alienation, and the desperate urge to retreat from the world are powerful. But for me, the execution tipped too far into monotony.

📖 Vibe Check:
💊 Sedation chic
🖤 Cynical humour
📉 Nothing happens (by design)

💬 Favourite Quote:
“I was always angry that people couldn’t see into my head, that they were content to glimpse me only from the outside.”

⭐️ Final Rating:
2 stars. Conceptually sharp, but the reading experience left me cold — more numbing than illuminating.

Not every book lands the same way for everyone — this one simply wasn’t for me. But if you read it and loved it, I’d genuinely like to hear why it worked for you. Sometimes those different perspectives are just as fascinating as the books themselves.

it started with me saying that “following the tour” doesn’t make me a groupie. (it doesn’t! …though, all right, maybe I did have my groupie-ish days back in the 80s. I regret nothing.) but then things escalated. long legs got mentioned, Darren got mentioned, and before I knew it, people were asking me about Indian Wells 1994.

and honestly? I’m not quite sure what anon was expecting. did they really think I was going to say “oh yes, I definitely had a moment with Darren in Indian Wells, February 1994” and then just… spill every detail? 😳 bless them. the only thing I gave away was his tournament result — lost in the quarter finals to Stefan Edberg 6-4 6-3. 😉 It was his best result in the last season of his playing career. 

I know I should turn anon off. I know I shouldn’t encourage this. but the cheek of the questions (and the even bigger cheek of me actually answering some of them) had me laughing myself silly. tumblr really does have a way of loosening the tongue, doesn’t it?

so, this is me the morning after: a little stunned, a little scandalised, and reminding myself that some things are better left in the 90s. 😉

and with that, I’m slamming the anon box shut. (probably. …maybe. we’ll see.)

Sometimes life feels like you’re stuck at 6–6 in the final set — all nerves, all urgency, no room to breathe. But not every moment needs to be a match point. Some of the best things happen when you let the rally go long and see where it takes you.

There’s a certain rush in a tiebreaker. Every point is urgent, every mistake magnified, every winner worth a fist pump. It’s addictive — that edge-of-your-seat feeling where you’re dialled in, hyper-focused, heart pounding. But you can’t live there forever.

In tennis, the beauty isn’t just in the high-pressure deciders. It’s in the slow burn of a set that twists and turns. The rallies that start with a tentative slice and end with an audacious drop shot. The points where nothing much seems to happen — until you realise you’ve been drawn into something quietly brilliant.

Life’s the same. You can’t be in crisis mode 24/7, even if you’ve convinced yourself you work best under pressure. Not everything needs an immediate winner. Some things — the important things — need time to breathe. A relationship. A career change. Figuring out who you are now versus who you were five years ago.

Sometimes, the most satisfying victories come when you stop pressing for the finish line and just play the point in front of you.

So yes — embrace the tiebreakers when they come. Rise to them. Feel the thrill. But remember to let the rest of the match unfold, point by point. You might just find the best parts happen between the big moments.

Honestly, I can’t think of many things that beat either scenario. On a sunny day, it’s the kind of iced coffee that beads with condensation before you’ve even taken the first sip, paired with the satisfying creak of an old bookshop door. The sunlight filters through high windows, catching in the dust motes and making the spines on the shelves gleam like a rainbow of well-loved treasures. There’s a lightness to it—a sense of possibility—that maybe today you’ll discover that book, the one you didn’t even know you needed.

Rainy-day bookshop visits are an entirely different kind of bliss. The air is rich with the scent of wet pavement and freshly brewed coffee, the rain pattering against the windows as you wrap your hands around a warm mug. The world outside might be grey and hurried, but inside, time slows. You linger over hardbacks you’ll never quite convince yourself to buy, stroke the covers of new releases, and tuck yourself into a corner chair to read the first few pages of something that just feels right.

I’ve always thought of bookshops as the perfect in-between place—somewhere between adventure and sanctuary. And whether the coffee is iced or hot, the magic is the same: you walk in carrying the day’s weather with you, and you leave with a little more than you came for. Usually in the form of a paper bag and a slightly lighter bank account.

So tell me—are you a sunshine-and-iced-coffee reader, or do you live for the rainy-day-hot-coffee kind of bookstore bliss?

"Never let anyone make you feel ordinary."

Big words, right? But here’s the thing—what even is ordinary? Beige? Quiet? Acceptable to strangers in a Tesco queue? I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been good at fitting in a box, especially not one with such drab wallpaper.

From the moment we can walk, we’re handed this invisible rulebook that says: blend in, don’t rock the boat, keep it neat. Honestly? Boring.

Ordinary isn’t real—it’s just a tidy little box that makes everyone else feel comfortable. And you? You weren’t made for a box.

The world is full of people who’ll try to iron out your edges. “Too loud.” “Too much.” “Not like the others.” You know what I hear in that? Fear. Fear of anyone who dares to be bold, or weird, or passionate about the stuff they love—whether that’s obscure novels, your borderline romantic feelings for Centre Court, or the way you refuse to pretend you don’t still listen to early Madonna on full volume.

I used to worry about that, once upon a time. Thought maybe it would be easier if I just toned it all down—talked a little less about my latest book crush, pretended I wasn’t that into the way Darren Cahill stands at the back of the box with his arms folded and that expression like he knows your secrets. But here's the plot twist: being ordinary is exhausting when you’re not built that way.

I’m not here for it.

And I don’t think you are either.

So wear the jacket that makes you feel like a badass. Say the thing. Read the vampire book and the sapphic romance and the slightly weird sci-fi novella about tea monks and sentient robots. Take up space—on the page, on the court, in the room. Laugh loudly. Be seen.

Because the truth is, the people who matter? They're not looking for someone who fits neatly into “ordinary.” They're drawn to your fire, your mess, your sparkle, your depth. They want you, just as you are.

✨ So tell me—what’s something about you that’s gloriously, unapologetically not-ordinary? I want to hear it. Let’s celebrate the beautiful weirdness together.

But now that I’ve drawn breath (and finally unpacked), it’s time for a proper reboot.

Back When I Was Much Younger

Back in the mid-late ’90s and into the early 2000s, I followed the tour properly. I’d jet off to Australia, swing by the US Open—it was easier back then, and frankly, far less ruinous on the purse. Was I a tennis groupie? A lady never kisses and tells.

Post-COVID, with travel feeling heavier and—if we’re being candid—the years creeping in, I’ve mostly stuck to a handful of clay court tournaments in Europe. But this year? I’ve not gallivanted quite like this in decades, and it’s been glorious fun.

Life on Tour: The Real, Beautiful Chaos

Monte Carlo was the start, planned down to the last detail. Then life threw me a delightful curveball: I met the loveliest Spanish couple, David and Miriam. One moment we were chatting over coffee, and the next I was in their car, road-tripping back to Spain. That turned into an unplanned escapade through Barcelona and Madrid—two cities, two entirely different rhythms, and frankly, more tapas than is respectable.

Rome was always on the agenda, though I had to tear up my flights and start again thanks to my newly altered route. It was the sort of last-minute scramble that used to send me into hysterics; these days, I simply shrug and order another espresso.

Then a quick interlude at home for laundry (and perhaps a decent cup of tea) before Paris called for Roland Garros. After that, back to London for Queen’s and Wimbledon—with David and Miriam making a surprise appearance, which was the perfect punctuation mark on an already mad summer.

At this point, my suitcase and I are on first-name terms. Plans shifted at the eleventh hour, flights got rerouted, and my main concern was not leaving my favourite tennis hat in some forgotten corner of Madrid.

And you know what? That unpredictability—that joyful chaos—is what makes this whole thing magic. It’s why I fell in love with tennis in the first place: the drama, the brilliance, the constant sense that anything could happen. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Why the Reboot?

After months of gallivanting and tennis-induced adrenaline, I wanted this space to feel like me again: books, tennis, and a little slice of life. Think vintage tenniscore meets literary dark academia—because my heart belongs equally to manicured grass courts and a well-worn novel.

What’s coming:

• Weekly round-ups (Kitty’s Weekly Serve) mixing books, matches, and musings.
• TBR check-ins, book lists, and a few strong opinions.
• Tennis reflections and some inevitable US Open chatter.
• Moodboards, playlists, and the occasional aesthetic indulgence.
•  

So, What’s Next?

Today kicks off a new posting schedule - 4 to 5 posts a week through August. Tomorrow, we’re diving into my Current TBR.

In the meantime, tell me:
What’s been the highlight of your summer—books, tennis, or something entirely different?

Drop a comment and let’s catch up. 💬

So... Fourth Wing. Not my usual genre (fantasy + dragons??), but here I am, giving in to the hype like the rest of Bookstagram.

If you know me, you know I usually stick to contemporary romance, horror, and the occasional brooding vampire—but Fourth Wing promises enemies-to-lovers tension, dramatic stakes, and something called “war college,” so… I’m intrigued. Possibly scared. Definitely curious.

I’ve seen Lord of the Rings, I loved Beach Read, and I yell “JUST KISS” at fictional characters often enough to feel emotionally prepared.

Will I fall in love with a dragon? DNF after 40 pages? Stay tuned. 🐉📖

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ – Witty, wistful, and a little sunburned in the best way

📚 Quick Take:

A fizzy friends-to-lovers romance told through snapshots of summer trips past and present—equal parts hilarious, heartfelt, and oh-so-human. Poppy and Alex are a study in chemistry, missed timing, and emotional slow burns.

✍️ My Thoughts:

You know that feeling when you’re sitting on a balcony at golden hour, sipping something cold, and laughing with someone who just gets you? That’s the energy of this book.

Emily Henry does such a brilliant job with voice—Poppy is funny and chaotic and deeply lovable, while Alex is her quiet, repressed, khaki-wearing match. Their banter snaps, but there’s so much underneath it: yearning, vulnerability, and the ache of not quite being ready for each other… until maybe, just maybe, they are.

The timeline structure—bouncing between past summer holidays and their current attempt to reconnect—works beautifully to build tension. You know something went wrong, but you’re not sure what, and you’re too invested in their goofy little adventures to stop reading.

Why not five stars? A few pacing dips and the will-they-won’t-they dragged just a touch too long for me. But emotionally? It lands. And I love that Henry doesn’t shy away from exploring the messy parts of relationships: the fear, the timing, the inner stuff we have to figure out before we can show up fully for someone else.

✨ Vibe Check:

• 🧳 Friends to Lovers
• ⏳ Slow Burn, Slow Yearning
• 💬 Witty Banter Goals
• 😬 Emotional Avoidance Experts
• 🥲 Summer Nostalgia + Sadness
• 🧠 Therapy But Make It Sexy
• 🍕 Eating your feelings in different cities

💬 Favorite Quote:

“You couldn’t have held my hand. I was using it to hold yours.”
(Insert a little scream here.)

⭐️ Final Rating:

4 stars. Funny, messy, romantic, and real. It’s a beach read for people who cry under their sunglasses.