From Screen to Page: The TV & Movies That Made Me Read The Books.

Source: Unsplash

We always talk about books being turned into movies or TV shows.

But what about the other way around?

When a screen version is so good that you suddenly find yourself at the bookstore getting the same book with the movie or screen tie-in version on the cover.

This has happened to me. More than once.

The Expanse – Space Opera at Its Best

I started The Expanse thinking, “Cool, space adventure.”
What I got instead?

• Political drama so tense it could give Succession a run for its money.
• Characters I still think about.
• And Christian Avasarala — the queen of sharp comebacks and sharper outfits. I absolutely love her and her foul mouth. 

The TV series was already brilliant, but the books?
Oh, the books. More world-building. More scheming. More Avasarala swearing like only she can.

It’s one of the rare shows that stayed close to its source material and still made me want more. I’m in no rush to finish either. I’m currently on Book 6 (Babylon’s Ashes), taking my time to savour every scene.

The After Series – My Guilty Pleasure

On the opposite end of the galaxy, we have the After series.
It’s corny. It’s predictable. I knew the plot after five minutes.
And yet? I couldn’t stop watching.

Hero Fiennes Tiffin and Josephine Langford played the leads so well it should be illegal. It’s the classic trope: bad boy falls for good girl, drama happens, they find their way back to each other.

Sometimes you just need your romance tropes served with extra cheese.

The Flash – From The CW to the Comics

Then there’s The Flash. I didn’t expect the CW version to send me to the comic book aisle — but it did.

I’ve read a couple of the comics (though I’ve fallen behind), but in my mind, Grant Gustin will always be my Flash. I loved the cast, the humour, and the storylines (well, most seasons anyway).

Now, I can’t read Barry Allen on the page without picturing Gustin in that suit.

The Summer I Turned Pretty – My Current Teen Obsession

Right now, I am a 50-year-old teenager.

I’m watching The Summer I Turned Pretty, rooting for Team Conrad like it’s a matter of national security, and reading the first book at the same time.

It’s all first-love nostalgia, bittersweet moments, and perfect summer vibes. Also, the TSITP Penguin book cover? Gorgeous. I may have bought it just to look at it.

PS: I asked my Facebook book club this same question, and wow — people delivered.
Some titles I now want to check out: Bleak House, The Beach, The Caves of Steel, and The White Robot.

Sometimes adaptations disappoint.
Sometimes they make you ask, “Why did they even bother?”

But sometimes — just sometimes — they’re so good, you have to experience the story all over again.
In print.
And sometimes… even in an audiobook version too.

So… what about you?
What book did you pick up because the screen version hooked you first?

A Walk To Remember Doesn't Need A Remake.

I just stumbled across a headline that made me stop mid-scroll:

A Walk to Remember is getting a remake.

Excuse me, what?

This movie came out in 2002. That’s just 23 years ago—not exactly ancient history. And yet, here we are, in 2025, with news confirming they’re bringing it back.

I even read somewhere that they were considering Olivia Rodrigo for the lead.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Olivia Rodrigo, but let me be clear:

A Walk to Remember does not need a remake.

I Had to Do a Rewatch

I was curious if maybe, just maybe, the movie really did need a refresh. 

So I decided to rewatch it.

I figured this would also be the perfect time to “introduce” my daughter to A Walk to Remember. She fell asleep halfway through. And suddenly there I was—sobbing alone on the couch while she snored like a baby.

Proof it still hits just as hard as it did 20+ years ago.

Honestly? 

It might hit even harder now, because I understand the weight of it more as an adult.

The Original Was Perfect

Mandy Moore and Shane West weren’t just well-cast. 

They were Jamie and Landon.

Mandy brought genuine sweetness and quiet strength to Jamie, while Shane nailed that mix of teenage rebellion and vulnerability that made Landon’s transformation believable. Also—anyone else love his smile in this? He had the bad boy strut and smirk down to an art.

The soundtrack? Loved it.
The dialogue? Corny, but in exactly the right way.
The story? Still rips your heart out in the best way.

It came out in that sweet spot of early-2000s teen romance before social media, before dating apps, before every character had a phone glued to their hand. It had space to breathe, and that’s part of what made it magic.

You can’t just throw two attractive Gen-Z actors together and hope it works the same way.

Has Hollywood Run Out of Ideas?

When did Hollywood decide the answer to everything was a reboot?

They tried Cruel Intentions— hard no from me.
They rebooted Footloose— I didn’t even bother.
At this rate, what’s next? Notting Hill starring TikTok influencers?

Maybe remakes are “safe” because they come with a built-in audience. 

But A Walk to Remember was one of those rare, perfect moments where every piece just fit.

Sure, the themes of love, loss, and personal growth are timeless. 

But the execution of the original is so tied to its time and place that updating it risks stripping away what made it special.

If You Absolutely Must Remake Something...

Then remake something that had potential but didn’t quite stick the landing.

Like Twilight.

Yes, I enjoyed the books. Yes, I watched all the movies. But let’s be honest: the execution was… uneven. Imagine it with sharper writing, better casting, and a director who really understood the tone.

Why A Walk to Remember is Unforgettable.

I can understand why Hollywood is looking to remake this movie. 

Part of what makes A Walk to Remember unforgettable is its sincerity. It’s not trying to be edgy or self-aware — it’s a simple, heartfelt love story about two people who change each other in the best way.

It’s a story that trusts quiet moments. It lets you feel the awkwardness, the hope, and the heartbreak without rushing to the next big twist. That’s rare now.

It reminds you of a time when romance on screen could be earnest without apology and maybe that’s why it’s still lodged in so many of our hearts two decades later.

The Bottom Line

Some movies deserve to be left alone.
A Walk to Remember is one of them.

It wasn't perfect. The storyline could have flowed better. But it does not need a remake. 

It exists perfectly in its own time: beautiful, heartbreaking, and unforgettable. It doesn’t need updating, rebooting, or reimagining.

Maybe there should be a rule:
Only remake movies if they’re at least 50 years old and the entire original cast is no longer with us. (Too dark? Maybe. But effective.)

Until then, Hollywood, please stop fixing things that aren’t broken.
There are so many original stories waiting to be told. Go make those.

The Networking Question That Caught Me Off Guard

“If you could meet one person from the past, who would it be?”

It’s one of those light questions meant to pass the time at a networking event, just small talk to keep the energy moving.

But when someone tossed it out casually across the table, I found myself… stumped.

Some people had ready answers:
— A beloved grandparent.
— A revolutionary leader.
— A favorite author who left us too soon.

Me? I blanked.
Not because I didn’t have anyone in mind, but because I’d never really sat with the question before.

Later that evening, though, it lingered. And the longer I thought about it, the clearer my answer became.

David Bowie.

Of course.

Not just because of the music—though Let’s Dance and Under Pressure will forever live on my playlist.

But because of who he was beyond the music.

There was always something about Bowie that felt a little otherworldly—but also incredibly grounded.
He came across as a quiet genius.

🎧 In interviews, he was never loud. He didn’t need to be. There was a stillness to him—a self-assured curiosity that made him the most interesting person in the room without ever raising his voice.

📚 He was a voracious reader. Did you know he once shared his top 100 books? It’s still one of my favorite corners of the internet. He reportedly carried books with him everywhere—on tour, in transit, in those quiet in-between spaces.

🎭 And then there was the reinvention.
Ziggy Stardust.
The Thin White Duke.
The elder statesman of cool.

Bowie shape-shifted through decades of culture without ever chasing relevance.
In a world obsessed with being louder and doing more, he showed us what quiet evolution looks like.

I’ve always admired that kind of transformation—the kind that doesn’t announce itself but leaves a mark anyway.

And then there’s his relationship with Iman.
Graceful. Grounded. Built on mutual admiration.
I’ve admired Iman for years—so much so that I named my daughter after her.

So what would I ask Bowie if I had the chance to meet him?

Not about fame.
Not even about music.

I’d ask:
“Can I spend a day in your personal library and just talk books with you?”

Because I truly believe that what we read reveals more than what we say.

And behind all the personas and glitter and genius, I suspect I’d find David Jones—the deeply curious mind behind it all.

The Magic Of Physical Books vs An E-Reader

Why sometimes the old way is still the best way.

Credit: Unsplash

I own four e-readers.

A Kindle, two Kobos, and a Boox Palma—each with its own perks. Yes, I know. I'm flexing a little. 😅

But here’s the truth: as efficient as e-readers are, sometimes nothing compares to the quiet, unexpected magic of reading a real, physical book.

And a few weeks ago, I was reminded just how true that is.

I was at the hospital for a routine follow-up, already bracing for a long wait.

Normally, I’d bring my Kindle. But that day, I grabbed the book I was reading at the time, Throne of Glass by Sarah J. Maas—a chunky fantasy novel in paperback that had been sitting on my shelf for years.

(𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭.)

While flipping through the pages, I noticed one of the staff members stealing glances at the cover. She looked intrigued, but didn’t say anything until later, by pure coincidence, when she ended up processing my payment.

As she keyed in my bill, she asked quietly, “Are you enjoying Throne of Glass?”

She was a fellow fantasy fan. Had seen Sarah J. Maas’s books around but hadn’t picked one up yet. That one question turned into a five-minute chat about favorite series, strong female leads, and book recs. 

(Naturally, I told her to start with A Court of Thorns and Roses. I mean c'mon, you gotta read this series if you haven't people.)

Two strangers, connected through the story in my hands.

This isn’t a rare event. It’s happened so many times, in the most ordinary places:
💅 Nail salons
🛫 Airport lounges
🏥 Waiting rooms

Every time, someone sees the cover of a book I’m reading and says:
“Oh, I’ve read that!” or “I’ve been meaning to start this. Is it any good?”

And I tend to do the same when I see a fellow book reader with an interesting book. 

These small, spontaneous connections? They don’t happen with e-readers.

With a Kindle or Kobo, no one knows what you’re reading. It could be a Pulitzer Prize winner or a spicy dark romance, you’re basically holding a black mirror of mystery.

(Although... I do read my spicy dark romances on my e-reader specifically so I don't get judged in public. 😂 We all have our tricks.)

But here the deal:
✨ E-readers are convenient and great for privacy.
📚 Physical books are great for connection.

Reading a physical book in public is like quietly wearing your heart—or your reading taste—on your sleeve.

You’re giving the world a glimpse into your inner world. And sometimes, that glimpse is enough to spark a conversation, an exchange, even a brief sense of community with someone you’ve never met.

Sure, there’s a little vulnerability there. 

You might get judged for your book choice. But more often than not, you’ll find someone who lights up and says, “I love that book,” or “I’ve been meaning to read that too.”

And suddenly, the book becomes more than a story. It becomes a bridge.

Look, I’m not giving up on e-readers. They’re brilliant for travel, midnight reading, and saving space (and money) in the long run. I love mine. All four of them.

But that small hospital moment reminded me why physical books still matter.

Because sometimes, the best stories don’t just live on the page.

They begin when someone notices the story you're holding in your hands.

TikTok Made Me Do It: My TSITP Obsession.

How a mindless scroll led to a weekend binge (And why I'm not sorry.)

TikTok is dangerous, and I have the evidence to prove it. 

First, it convinced me to buy a stack of books that now serve as expensive bookends on my nightstand. Then, just when I thought I was safe, it did something far worse. 

It introduced me to The Summer I Turned Pretty. 

You know how it starts.

Those perfectly edited reels keep appearing on your FYP. Then suddenly you're thinking, "Let's just watch one episode. See what all the fuss is about." The algorithm knows exactly what it's doing, serving up those sun-drenched clips of beach houses and beautiful teenagers until your curiosity finally wins.

And win it did.

What began as innocent curiosity turned into a full-blown obsession.

Before I knew what hit me, I had devoured all three seasons, well, up to Season 3, Episode 3, because apparently, even Amazon Prime wants to torture us with weekly releases.

Here I am, a 50-year-old adult, suddenly transformed into a teenager again, passionately defending Team Conrad to absolutely no one while my chores were neglected and takeout containers accumulated on my dining table.

My kids got fed (thank goodness for delivery apps), but my weekend? Completely hijacked by Cousins Beach drama.

The most embarrassing part?

I regret nothing.

But, here's what surprised me most about falling down the TSITP rabbit hole: this show is so much more than the “Team Conrad vs. Team Jeremiah” debate that dominates social media.

Yes, the love triangle is there, and yes, it's compelling in that way that makes you want to shake your phone and yell at fictional characters.

Beneath all that romantic tension lies something much deeper.

Here's what I love about it (And why it hit so hard): If you want to avoid spoilers, this is your warning to stop here.

1. Soulmate friendship: An unbreakable bond

“Best friends are important. They're the closest thing to a sister you'll ever have.”

Watching Susannah and Laurel's relationship unfold on screen, I saw my own friendships reflected back at me.

At my age, I've come to deeply appreciate these connections. The way I can talk more openly with my girlfriends than I do with my husband sometimes. The bond is different. The connection runs deeper.

That devastating moment when they discovered Susannah's cancer had returned?
I cried buckets. Actual buckets.

The thought of losing my closest friends is unbearable, and the show captured that fear with brutal honesty.

2. Sibling dynamics that feel too real

As an eldest child, Conrad's character resonates with me on a visceral level.

Sometimes, as the eldest, we think we need to be the bigger person, make decisions that benefit everyone, only to have our sacrifices go unappreciated.

I see these same patterns playing out with my own children. My eldest carrying responsibility like Conrad, my second navigating their role like Jeremiah.

The show understands that birth order shapes us in ways we don’t even realise, and watching these dynamics play out feels both painful and validating.

3. Young love (And why we never get over it)

Who doesn't remember how everything felt monumental when you were young?

The part of me that appreciates a good story loves watching young love unfold in all its intensity. The way a simple gesture could make your entire day, how every emotion was turned up to eleven. Watching Belly navigate her feelings brought back that rush of first love, when everything mattered so intensely it hurt.

But then there's the older, more grounded me, the one screaming at my screen for Belly to smarten up because, seriously, you're gorgeous and there are literally other men in the world. 

I find myself wanting to yell at Conrad, too: "It's okay, Connie baby, twenty years from now, you'll get over it and look back at this fondly. Life goes on!"

It's this constant internal conflict between my romantic heart and my practical brain that keeps me completely hooked.

I'm simultaneously swooning over the grand gestures and rolling my eyes at the drama — living vicariously through their intensity while wanting to shake some sense into them.

Maybe that's the real genius of the show. It lets us experience both the beautiful naivety of young love and the hard-earned wisdom that comes after.

4. I apparently have a thing for brotherly love triangles.

I've just realised something about myself that may be slightly concerning.

I have a definite pattern:

The Summer I Turned Pretty, 

The Brothers Hawthorne, 

The Vampire Diaries… 

Apparently, I'm drawn to love triangles involving brothers like a moth to a very dramatic flame.

Do I have a problem? Absolutely not.

Give me all the drama, all the complicated family dynamics, all the “choosing between brothers” angst.

This is peak fictional romance, and I'm here for every messy moment of it.

5. The soundtrack I'm enjoying (But making my kids cringe)

Can we talk about the music, please?

Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Can't Stop" when Conrad walks into therapy? Chef’s kiss.

Radiohead's "No Surprises" after that excruciating lunch scene? Perfect.

The show also introduced me to an array of new music that I'm now enthusiastically singing along to, much to my children's chagrin.

They're more embarrassed by me now more than ever because I'm "trying too hard to be young and cool."

Whatever.

If appreciating good music is a crime, lock me up.

But wait, it gets worst…

Want to know the ultimate sign of obsession though?

I've started reading the actual books.

No. I'm not kidding.

I've put aside Priory of the Orange Tree (for the fifth time. Seriously, does that plot ever pick up?) to dive into Jenny Han's trilogy.

Also, can we take a minute to appreciate how pretty the cover of this Penguin edition is, please?

My current read can wait. I need to cleanse TSITP out of my system properly, and apparently, that means consuming it in every possible format.

The verdict: TikTok wins again.

So yes, TikTok is dangerous.

It turned a 50-year-old, fairly responsible woman with mostly acceptable life choices into a TSITP addict, ordering pizza for lunch on a Sunday because I just could NOT pause for lunch until I finished one more episode.

It made me care deeply about the romantic choices of fictional teenagers.
It reminded me what it feels like to be completely absorbed in a story.

And honestly? 

I think that’s okay. Sometimes we need to be reminded that it's okay to get swept away. To feel things deeply. To root for Team Conrad with the passion of someone who’s forgotten she has bills to pay, kids to feed, and a back that now clicks when she stands up too fast.

The Summer I Turned Pretty might be marketed to teens, but its themes are timeless.

Love, loss, family, friendship, growing up. These experiences don't have age limits. Neither does the joy of finding a story that makes you forget everything else for a weekend.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to check when Episode 4 drops.

And maybe finally tackle the dishes.

But first, let me just read one more chapter...

What Ozzy's Final Bow Taught Me About Going Out On Our Own Terms.

Photo: Ozzy Osbourne

I’ve been thinking a lot about Ozzy Osbourne lately.

I'm not an Ozzy fan, if I'm being honest, but he was always there, blaring from someone’s stereo, showing up on MTV, or stumbling through the chaos of suburban life on The Osbournes. 

I didn’t seek him out, but I didn’t have to.

As a Gen-Xer, his music and persona were part of the background noise of my growing-up years.

So when I heard that he passed away just weeks after his final concert, it hit me in a way I didn’t expect. There was something heartbreakingly poetic about it, like an ending within an ending, wrapped in the kind of rock and roll mythology that defined so much of our generation’s cultural landscape.

What struck me even more was the fact that he performed that show in Birmingham, despite Parkinson’s, despite a body that no longer did what he wanted it to. He still showed up. Still chose to sing one last time. 

I saw a few clips of the concert online, and even though I’m not a fan, I found myself whispering, "Wow." 

There was a kind of grit to it. A sense of dignity in defiance.

The part that really got me, though, was when he sang “Mama, I’m Coming Home.” The irony wasn’t lost on me. This man, who spent decades as the Prince of Darkness, chose to go out with something soft. Something tender. Something that said: I’m done, and I’m at peace with that.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

Watching it all unfold, even from behind a screen, left me with one clear impression: Ozzy went out on his own terms, in his own legendary way.

And it got me thinking: What does it really mean to go out on your own terms?

For Ozzy, it was a final concert. One last bow in front of a crowd that had loved him for decades.

But for the rest of us, those without the stage or the spotlight, what does that look like?

I’ve started to realise that going out on your own terms doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t have to be public. It doesn’t even have to be big. It just has to be intentional.

Maybe it’s finishing that novel you’ve been meaning to write for the past twenty years.

Maybe it’s continuing to show up for your kids, even when they don’t need you in the same way anymore.

Maybe it’s keeping your sense of humour intact as your joints get louder every morning.

For me, it’s writing posts like this: trying to make sense of the moments that shape us, and leaving a trail of thoughts behind as a kind of legacy.

I think a lot about legacy these days. 

About what kind of trail I want to leave behind. 

As a Gen-Xer, I grew up with a quiet kind of rebellion. Learning not to expect too much, keeping my guard up, and figuring things out as I went along. 

That independent streak? I still have it. 

And maybe it’s what will help me age with some semblance of grace. Because I don’t want anyone else scripting my ending. I want to write it myself.

That’s why I’ve been thinking more seriously about living with intention. Not just floating through the days, but really asking myself the tough questions: What matters most? What would I regret not doing? How do I want to be remembered?

Sometimes that means uncomfortable conversations about ageing, death, and everything in between. Sometimes it means saying no to things that drain me, and yes to things that spark something in me, even if they scare me. And sometimes, it just means sitting down with a cup of coffee, opening my laptop, and writing it all down.

I think that’s what Ozzy did, in his own way. 

That final show felt almost choreographed: the hometown crowd, the original band, the songs that defined a generation. And then, a mic drop exit. 

Not everyone gets a finale like that. 

Most of us won’t. But we do get small choices, every day, that shape the ending we’ll one day have.

This past few weeks, we lost icons we grew up watching. 

Ozzy. Malcolm-Jamal Warner. Hulk Hogan. Icons who seemed larger than life. Their departures are starting to feel personal. 

They’re reminders that we’re entering a new season, whether we’re ready for it or not.

So I keep asking myself: How do I want to live this next chapter? What story am I still trying to tell?

Maybe the lesson isn’t about going out in a blaze of glory. 

Maybe it’s about going out as yourself, flawed, human, but still reaching for connection, for meaning, for presence.

Mama, I’m coming home indeed.

We all are, eventually.

The question is: what kind of journey do we want it to be?