Hello all,

It can feel like a hard month, January, can’t it? Particularly when the known order of the world seems to be hanging together by a thread. Maybe we’d all hoped for a calmer start to 2026, but then, as someone once said… ‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley’.

But if there is one thing we can still cheer at the moment it’s writers themselves, old and new, who dream up worlds that might be, that once were, and that could be again with merely the scratch of a quill or the tap of a keyboard.

Of course, we couldn’t start anywhere else this week than with some immortal words from the great Scottish Bard himself, Robert Burns, whose memory so many in Scotland and around the world will cherish with whisky and poetry a-plenty this Sunday. In one of Burns’ most exquisite poems, “O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair,” printed below, the poet speaks of the promise of Spring and hope renewed, so vital whenever we find ourselves stranded in a winter of discontent. 🌱

As well as celebrating the great wordsmiths of yesteryear, however, BookGo is also doing what BookGo does best and feting the writers of tomorrow. We are so pleased that this week we are announcing the WINNER of our inaugural flash fiction and poetry contest! Drum roll please… 🥁

To us, the piece really stood out from a fantastic range of submissions. We are so excited to publish it in full below! We will also be featuring our runners up in each of our subsequent newsletters. A huge thank you to everyone who entered. Stay tuned for more competitions to come. ⭐

And if that weren’t enough new writing for one weekend, we’re also very excited to share a wonderful poem by author Sara Fym about the devastating onset of cold weather. Some fitting words for anybody trying to ride out the East Coast storm — stay safe and warm and dry, folks.

Finally, one of the other things we recognise at BookGo is that often all this talk of prizes and “best-ofs” and “must reads” can get a bit overwhelming. In his satirical piece this week, therefore, Michael takes a look at some of the formulaic lists of the so-called “top books” that were churned out at the end of 2025. And he wonders if they might have missed out on a few…

So whether your writing is winning prizes, reaching millions, or simply entertaining a few friends around the dinner table, then just remember that we’re here to say: Keep at it! Robert Burns had an audience of one when he wrote his first poem: “O once I lov’d a bonny lass,” addressed to his “most handsome Nell.” It was only after a long while and a lot more poems that Emerson eventually declared that Burns’ writing was ‘the only example in history of a language made classic through the genius of a single man.’ Well you can’t say fairer than that. But we’ve all got to start somewhere, and wherever you are on your writing journey, BookGo is here for you.

So, in honor of the Scottish bard, come raise a glass of kindness with us to writers old and new this weekend. 🥃

Table of Contents

• Poetry: “O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair” by Robert Burns

• New Fiction: “The Envelope” by Adam T

• Poetry: “Coldly Crashes in November” by Sara Fym

• Feature: “A 2025 Round-Up: Beyond the ‘Best of’ Books” by Michael McKinley

Poetry: “O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair”

By Robert Burns

O were my love yon Lilac fair,
  Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,
  When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn when it was torn
  By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
  When youthful May its bloom renew'd

ANNOUNCING: THE WINNER OF BOOKGO’S INAUGURAL FLASH FICTION AND POETRY COMPETITION

“The Envelope”

By Adam T

The knock stopped the moment the envelope slid under the door. I bent to pick it up, already knowing what it would say.

“Today you are Daniel. Yesterday has been reassigned.”

I read it twice. The name always changes; the handwriting never does. Clean strokes, no hesitation. Whoever writes these knows I won’t question it.

I washed my face, rehearsing last week’s details in case anything overlapped. Daniel prefers black coffee. Daniel keeps his head down. Daniel does not linger on reflective surfaces.

Outside, the street felt brighter than usual. I slipped into Daniel’s posture. My chin lowered, stride measured and walked toward the café I was supposed to prefer. Consistency keeps lives from collapsing.

Halfway down the block, I sensed someone matching my pace. Not close enough to alarm a normal person, but enough for someone trained to recognize. Small steps behind my right shoulder.

I slowed.

They slowed.

I crossed the street without looking.

They did too.

Cities are full of coincidences, I told myself. But then I caught a reflection in the pharmacy window: a figure adjusting their coat the same way I do, thumb grazing the inside seam. A habit I’d never managed to break no matter the name.

I kept walking. The figure kept following. At the café, I could see him more clearly in the glass door. A man with my height, my stance, my hesitation. Somehow it made my stomach tighten.

As I ordered my black coffee, the follower stayed outside, pretending not to watch, though his reflection drifted in and out like a misplaced memory. When I left, he was already halfway down the block. I followed, matching his pace. He turned at the next corner.

So, did I.

Empty streets, brief reflections, enough to keep me aware. He quickened. I quickened. Just two men walking in the same direction, one a few steps behind the other. At the second corner, he vanished.

I walked the rest of the way home without seeing him again, though the sensation stayed close, like a coat draped over my shoulders long after I’d taken it off. Every shop window, every passing tram offered a flicker that could have been him.

By the time I reached my building, the light had shifted into that late afternoon grey that makes everything look slightly blurred. The staircase was so still it made my own movements sound wrong.

Then I saw it.

Another envelope halfway at the foot of my door. No knock. No footsteps. Just the envelope. Same paper. Same crisp fold. Same handwriting that always seemed to know more about me than I wanted.

I picked it up. My hands felt colder than the paper. Inside was one short, impatient sentence:

“Tomorrow you are the man you just chased.”

Meet the Author

BookGo: Adam, we loved your story, can you tell us a bit about yourself as a writer?

Adam: I write across genres, including narrative nonfiction, children’s stories, and personal essays. My work has appeared online and in print, including Mental Floss, Blue Bell Magazine, Ruadán Books, and Open Secrets, among others. I am currently working on a historical nonfiction story for Damn Interesting. Having used six languages throughout my life, made me drawn to forgotten histories, cultural oddities, and the small details that shift how we see the familiar.

BookGo: Can you say a bit about how the story came about?

I have been listening for a while to a podcast about spies and their craft, and the stories it featured reinforced a belief I have always had: Our identities are not set in stone, that different situations and life experiences require us to be someone new.

I tend to think of identity as puzzle pieces in a puzzle board. Each experience or role adds something, but the pieces don’t form one stable image. Depending on which pieces are used, a different self appears. I had been toying with the idea to write a spy/crime novel but it’s kind of a stretch, so whenever I get an idea I write a story and see how far it takes me, sometimes it’s a 100 words, sometimes 3k and then I find a way to consolidate them. The Envelope came from this process, it suggests a larger system but I didn’t feel the need to explore it further.

BookGo: That’s wonderful. Thank you again for sharing and congratulations!

The BookGo Flash Fiction and Poetry Prize ran in December 2025. Authors were asked to submit a new piece of flash fiction or poetry on any topic, fiction or non-fiction,, up to a maximum of of 500 words. Thank you to all who submitted.

Poetry: “Coldly Crashes in November”

By Sara Fym

Sweaters gone
     Coats are on
Leaf pile play
     All blown away
Leafy bits tumble
     As corners crumble
Into reddy dust
     Gone in one gust
In shorter days
     In front doorways
Pumpkin smiles
     Are rotting down
Now they only drool and frown
     Trickertreaters are now done
     Not anymore their costumed fun
     With candy happy they did haunt
     Only empty wrappers taunt
 	My sunshine theft
        Dark is all that’s left
Now I remember
     The ugly cold
Not yet the glowing snow to behold
     But windy knives of icy slashes
        Coldly crashes in November

“The Best of Books”

By Michael McKinley

One of the mixed pleasures of being a writer comes at the end of the year, when the annual list of Best Books of the Year pings the inbox. I click and see if a) I have read any of them, and b) marvel at how some of them made the cut and c) look to see if I have. So far, I have not. Hence the mix in the pleasure.

It does not bother me, as lists that come from The New Yorker, or The New York Times, or any other august media outlet, contain their own DNA. That would be the DNA of the reviewers, who have their own reasons for listing a book as “one of the best”.

Indeed, what is always striking is how many “best books” are written by authors who are already very well known. That makes me wonder why they need the bump. Maybe they have written a good book, but what about that debut novelist who could not crack the confederacy of publishing dunces and who self-published a masterpiece, which has gone ignored by the media mavens who would rather give, say Ian McEwan and Zadie Smith, both fine writers, the best book space, than someone new. And yes, I do mean that Confederacy of Dunces by author John Kennedy Toole, who killed himself when he couldn’t get a publisher, and then his book was published 11 years posthumously by his mother. It’s on my best list.

It all comes down to a kind of inherent self-interested snobbery among the mainstream book reviewers. If you name a famous author who has written an OK book, you stay in good with the author and their reps and who knows who else? If you include that self-published debut novelist, you are taking a big risk, because what if that’s all they ever write then how does that help you?

So, in the spirit of the end of the year, we at BookGo want to nominate our “Best Books of 2025.” They are Squawk 7700, Come Up Big, Redeemed, and The Glamour of Evil. We published them all, and I had a hand in writing two of them. So, I mean, why is our list any less valid than the other ones? I know, there are a thousand reasons why, but that’s my point. So make your own list this end of year, and post it wherever you post, and let’s make this list game more interesting, created by readers.

Though the one list I do approve of is this one by Steve Donoghue. He fears no one, and he’s very funny, and I am very happy not to be on his list!

Stevereads

The Worst Books of 2025: Nonfiction

There are layers to every year’s Worst Books lists, of course. Some of the year’s worst books are the worst merely because they’re stupid; in fact, the merely abysmal seldom appear here, since there are so many more competitive ways for a book to be bad. Others are the worst because they’re deceitful, whether through unknowingly peddling the deceit of o…

Read more

8 months ago · 49 likes · Steve Donoghue

COME UP BIG — “A warmly inviting story of a full life.” — Kirkus Reviews (Starred Review)

Read the full review