My earliest reading memory
An Andy Capp comic strip in my dad’s newspaper when I was six. It was about horse racing and my dad was watching horse racing on the telly. My brain just broke. Where did stories come from? Who wrote them? Why? Were they all about our family? Poor Dad. He just wanted to put a bet on, and I was pestering him about the nature of storytelling.
My favourite book growing up
My parents didn’t realise Roald Dahl wrote adult books, so I read some stuff I probably wasn’t ready for. There’s one story where a put-upon housewife kills her husband with a frozen leg of lamb which she then feeds to the policemen who come to investigate. After that, James and the Giant Peach didn’t really cut it any more.
The book that changed me as a teenager
I grew up in a working-class town in the north-west. We didn’t have much money, but that was all right because neither did anybody else. Reading Agatha Christie I discovered that people could be rich without working for it. I was 13 and it was the first time I’d been angry at a concept, rather than a person.
The writer who changed my mind
This hasn’t happened and it’s my fault. I’m liberal in nearly everything, and believe that capitalism in its current form is no longer serving the majority of people. I’ve grown lazy in that belief and need to test it with some contradictory viewpoints. The problem is that nearly everybody on the other side strikes me as self-serving.
The book that made me want to be a writer
I’ve always told stories, even when I was little and couldn’t spell. It’s how I expressed myself or entertained myself. Writing is where I retreated when I was sad or confused. My entire personality grew out of that innate urge.
The book or author I came back to
Any book on my university syllabus – there’s something about being made to read a “classic” that automatically makes it into a chore. One of those was Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. I hated every minute when I was 19, but I read it a couple of years ago and found it entirely wonderful, playful and subtle. It was a joy.
The book I reread
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. I read it for the first time when I was 22 and I’ve read it every year since. It’s a perfect piece of writing. When I was younger I identified with the kids in the book. Now I’m older, I’m identifying with the jaded, tired adults, which is a bit scary.
The book I could never read again
Anything by Stephen King. I powered through his stuff in my teens, but that genre doesn’t hold much appeal for me any more. I find monsters a bit dull.
The book I am currently reading
The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles, which is a very good book that feels worse than it is because his other books are exceptional. Unfair expectations will be the death of us all.
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My comfort read
The Night Watch by Terry Pratchett. It’s structurally fun, it’s got great characters, emotion, fantasy, sci-fi, time loops, and a really devilish baddy. It all comes together beautifully. Knowing you’re in safe hands is a wonderful feeling when the world feels a bit shaky.