Confessions of a Shopaholic Made Me Want to Be an Author
First of all, I want to share my condolences to Sophie Kinsella’s family. Her books, especially Confessions of a Shopaholic, made a fierce, fabulous, forever life-changing effect on myself and the career I hoped to one day pursue. (And am currently doing.) She’s the reason I wanted to take writing seriously. Her books are ones I’ve read over and over again and never get sick of. Each time I flip through the pages—from The Tennis Party to The Burnout—I find myself laughing along and enjoying the arrival of each new chapter.
Unfortunately, I know all too well what her family is going through right now. My dad passed away from glioblastoma in 2014, the same disease Sophie was battling. When I first heard the news, my heart broke. The trauma that I’ve worked to overcome for the last decade came bubbling up to the surface. Not another person. Although, not in as painful a way as with my own father.
Yes, Sophie was a stranger to me. However, I think that once you’ve experienced a loved one going through brain cancer . . . there is a certain helplessness that resides in you. There’s nothing that can be done; the odds are disheartening. The pain of that loss forever lives in your heart and soul. When you hear someone else is experiencing the same, it’s impossible not to feel a sort of sad kinship. Especially when you’re taken right back to the first stages of grief.
I originally had another post scheduled for today but after hearing the news of Sophie Kinsella’s passing yesterday, I felt I wanted to write something of an ode to her.
And of course, her novel Confessions of a Shopaholic, which is the book that made me want to be an author.
In 2002, when I was obsessed with platform sandals, butterfly clips, and camouflage print, I found a copy of Confessions of a Shopaholic on my living room coffee table. My older cousin had lent it to my mum to read. I was only 11 years old at the time and admittedly a bit too young for the book—but I remember being instantly hooked: by the cover, the title, the content.
I snuck it in my school backpack and brought it for our grade six “quiet reading block” after lunch. While the other kids were reading Goosebumps, The Saddle Club, and Animorphs, I was reading Confessions of a Shopaholic. (Although, being horse-obsessed as well as a young fashion-lover, I was a huge Saddle Club fan too.) My teacher didn’t say anything to me. Maybe she didn’t notice, or didn’t care. Maybe as long as we were all quiet and reading it didn’t really matter.
From the first page, I was hooked. I remember giggling with my friends about some of the scenarios—I can’t remember specifically which ones—that were too “grown-up” for us to be reading but we thought were hilarious. And scandalous! A lot of drama. Just the kind of thing my 11-year-old self was thrilled by. After all, I too loved pretty clothes and shopping to my heart’s content. Not that I had the funds to do it. But then again, neither did Becky Bloomwood.
Read More: My New Poetry Collection, Too Busy 4 Heartbreak, is Out Now
Sophie Kinsella rapidly became my favourite author. I can’t remember when I began voraciously reading everything she’d ever written, but it was definitely during my teen years. The next book I adored from her was Can You Keep a Secret?, which was published in 2003. My sister and I both loved it and we even bought a copy to permanently keep at our family’s summer cabin to ensure we always had a saucy beach read to flip through while sunbathing on the shore.
From there came The Undomestic Goddess, Twenties Girl, and of course, plenty more in the Shopaholic series. I read them all with an unquenchable thirst. I loved Sophie’s stories, characters, wit. One day while searching for more, I came across the novels she wrote under her real name: Madeleine Wickham.
You can imagine my delight. More books? New—or new to me—books? Let me get my hands on them! The Tennis Party, The Gatecrasher, Sleeping Arrangements, Wedding Girl, Cocktails for Three, A Desirable Residence . . . I read them all. And then I read them again. At first from the library and then buying them from bookstores whenever I came across one.
Last Thursday, I finally picked up What Does It Feel Like? by Sophie Kinsella from my local library. I’d been wanting to read it since it came out last year but I was scared; of the sadness, the reality of cancer, the inside look at what my dad went through but tried his best to protect me and my sister from. I was curious, but I was also extremely hesitant. For whatever reason, last week it just felt like the time to finally place it on hold.
Read More: How to Write a Fashion Fiction Novel
I began reading it slowly—a page or two here and there between playing with my kids, preschool drop-off, cooking dinner, etc. The book is separated into different sections. There is a Before and there is an After. Of course, before and after finding out about the cancer. I read the “before” gleefully but with a pit in my stomach knowing what was to come. When I got to the “after” section on Tuesday, I put the book down. I figured the sorrow could wait.
Then, I woke up on Wednesday morning to the news that Sophie had passed. Isn’t it strange, I thought, that now is the time I decided to read the book? Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t at all and it’s just one of those weird things the universe throws at you every now and then. Who knows. One of my girlfriends in Toronto texted me right away about the news and said that she too, coincidentally, was reading What Does It Feel Like?
When I took some time to relax on the couch that afternoon while my twins played contentedly on their own, I reached for the book. Almost immediately, the tears started flowing. To recap briefly without (too many) spoilers: the main character, Eve, wakes up in the hospital and has no idea how she got there. She’s recovering from brain surgery. Days, then weeks, pass and she has to be reminded of why she’s there—the cancer keeps slipping her mind.
Read More: 11 Chick Lit Novels from the Early Aughts that Will Make You LOL
I couldn’t help but wonder . . . Is this what my dad went through, too? While he was waking up from brain surgery and I was across the country, living my solo 23-year-old life? Did he not remember driving himself to the emergency room with a splitting headache the day before? Or not being able to remember what a cheeseburger was called? Did he also have to practice drawing lines and learn to write his name again?
Each time Eve has to be reminded of her tumour, it brings fresh tears to my eyes. What an awful thing to remember, what an awful thing to forget. (Was grade 4 glioblastoma something my dad forgot at some point?) I’m going to finish the book. Of course I am. But it might take me a little bit.
I’m so sorry that Sophie and her family had to go through this. And for everyone else in the world affected by this type of cancer—and really any type of cancer. Rest in peace, Sophie. Your books will be loved forever. I can’t wait to share them with my daughter one day.
—ᴍᴍᴍ