I HAVE one of those IKEA book cases around 18 inches wide. It resides in my study and, I am glad to say, it is only two-thirds full. We have several book cases elsewhere, but the difference is those contain books we have read. This particular six-shelf case contains books we have not read.

Among those are books we have been given and come highly recommended. I note also, that War and Peace is nestling in the corner. I smile when I see that. Some years back, upon selling up in SW Herts, I came across a 1961 diary of mine which proclaimed on January 1st, three New Year’s Resolutions. The first was to give up smoking, which I attempted but did not actually succeed in achieving permanently until New Year’s Day 1988.

The second was to save 10 shillings (50p) per week, which I doubt if I achieved until ten shillings represented a very minor part of my weekly wage. The third was to read War and Peace. I know not why I promised myself that, but the promise remains unrealised some 54 years later.

We tend to visit the book case every late June as Ellie and I prepare for a restful holiday, enjoying the sun and the vibes in the Spanish village we visit every year. To be honest, I left War and Peace. I took a few books I had been recommended and three I had purchased.

I kicked off with John Irving’s In One Person: a story about a bi-sexual, which would not be my cup of tea, had it not been for the fact I enjoy Irving’s books. Yes I do become irritated occasionally, when most of his central characters are into wrestling or Vienna or want to become a writer and sometimes all three.

I stumbled across Irving some30 years ago when I picked up a copy of Hotel New Hampshire and found myself laughing out loud very soon after I had commenced reading. It is not a humorous book as such, and most novels are not remotely funny, just ironic, but I enjoyed the story and soon graduated to Life According to Garp.

As it happens, the hero of In One Person does go to Vienna and enjoys wrestling and is also a writer, but it was a story well told as usual. Ellie had hijacked my other Irving purchase, Twisted River, so I did not commence that until the last day of our holiday and it remains unfinished during the maelstrom of family visits.

The next book I tackled was by another favourite of mine, Bill Bryson and I marvelled at the research and information of his book At Home, although it lacks his usual liberal doses of humour. Some people like my old pal, the late cartoonist Terry Challis, read Bryson at my recommendation, expecting humour on every page. The secret is that he slips in a few lines every now and then, leavening the impressive tracts of information he provides on each subject.

Someone had recommended Flight Behaviour by Barbara Kingsolver, which tells the story of a frustrated and slightly disillusioned wife, against the background significance of global warming. I did enjoy it and I felt the character was very well drawn but was left a little disappointed by the ending. I felt similarly robbed by My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult, which gave me the impression the author could not resolve the moral dichotomy and opted to cop out at the end.

Another recommended book was Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels, which I read because it is so highly rated but I could not rid myself of the feeling as I turned every page: this is not that special despite the glowing testimonials from sundry publications.

During my pre-holiday perusal of my bookcase, my eyes had alighted on an old book, I should have read back in my F Scott Fitzgerald-John O’Hara period, but somehow, I had never felt that motivated to read this book, Main Street by Sinclair Lewis. It was very highly rated in the early 1920s and the author went on, despite the competition from perhaps more familiar names, to become the first American author to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

To my surprise this was another well-drawn story of a woman, swept off her feet and taken to live in a small town where she festers in disillusion and disappointment. Small wonder a book about a woman with a mind of her own, caused a stir in the 1920s, and the insight into her thinking was superbly captured by this impressive male author. Certainly I rated it the best book I read over the three weeks and it must have been way ahead of its time in 1920.

Normally, the majority of my reading is confined to non-fiction and has been so for many years. Having written one book and put it on the back-burner, and roughed out a second, I felt it was timely that I should read some fiction – some of it of enviable quality – and the exercise put my own aspirations in that direction, firmly in their place. While I found some tracts unnecessarily pretentious in their bid to become creatively descriptive, it is clear I have some work to do this autumn. Something of a rethink is in order.

I had suspected as much, for I have thrown myself into creating a book over the previous five months and, in doing so, perhaps lost perspective. However, the experience has brought home one fact. I enjoy writing so much, I do not worry if it is going to be read or not. I just enjoy the process, so reworking what I have written will not be a chore.

In fact, while on holiday, I came up with a few ideas for a third book which may be a better concept. As I explained to one of two people who have read what I have written, I thoroughly enjoyed sexual intercourse when I made my debut but had no idea what I was doing. After a few more tries, I began to get the hang of it, and perhaps writing a book may be like that. I may get it right after four or five attempts.