Oof. This little book seemed to last eons, and it took me forever to read. I don’t think I can remember every single reason I disliked it. I was hopeful that this would be good because I loved the way she wrote certain details…at first. And then the whole novel became these elaborate descriptions and long paragraphs about spaces (which I probably should’ve expected from a novel with the word “rooms” in the title). And the dialogue was incorporated into these long paragraphs with no sort of format to indicate someone was speaking aloud. The narrator is also formless, which I think was intentional to indicate her own struggle with identity and place. However, it was executed in such a way that I felt drained as if I had sat at a party and listened to someone ramble on for hours who lacks any self-awareness.

I gave it two stars instead of one because I appreciated some of the social commentary, particularly about social media, class, and feminism, but all of the Brexit discussions were lost on me (which is my own fault). I also enjoyed how precise some of her descriptions were.

Overall, it was an exhausting read and definitely launched me into a reading slump. ( )

I received a copy of this novel from the publisher via NetGalley.

This novel was not for me. I couldn't get past the 'literary' style (e.g. 'I wanted to work with the dichotomy of things: the constant present tense of the house, and the vision I had of myself, unpacked, future perfect'. The narrator concludes that living like that is exhausting - I find reading writing like that exhausting.) Also, the street in Oxford is St Giles, not Giles Street. ( )

Interesting debut novel. Riffing off Virginia Woolf's A Room one's Own, but suggesting how that theory is failing the current middle class generation. A room of one's own is unlikely to be the answer in and of itself.

The skeleton of the narrators three rooms of accommodation over a year: in Oxford (doing a short junior academic post), in London (a 'per day' paid job at a shiny magazine, and heading back to her parents house in rural suburbia where the room was never previously hers, and she has no job to go to.

Hamya picks up and turns the political pebbles of the time, including Brexit, the success of the Tories at the polls, wealthy protestors, the low pay of workers across the lower and mid classes.

There is a lot of mundanity observed. And a flat sense of powerlessness in many respects.

The fourth room, and maybe the predominant one, is the one carried in the narrators hand. That oblong light box which bleeds into the world noise to be viewed if not always digested, relevant, true, but increasingly addictive.

A deft debut. I shall certainly watch for her work going forward. ( )