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4 hours ago
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My earliest reading memory
One of my older sisters taught me to read using Mills & Boon romance novels. I grew up autistic and queer and feel a nostalgic bewilderment about this genre, which at that time was populated by strong heroines who would – predictably but unfathomably – go weak at the knees for their male love interests. Otherwise, we had few books in the house. There are talented storytellers in my family, particularly my mother. I preferred to hide under the stairs and deliver my stories by writing them down.
The book that changed me as a teenager
Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas. I had known it in childhood in the vinyl format, my late father had the Richard Burton recording. Even though it is a play for voices, I found reading the text myself thrilling. I loved the opulence of the language and the narrative range of it.
The book that made me want to be a writer
Conrad the Factory-Made Boy by Christine Nöstlinger. As a late-diagnosed autistic person I have only recently realised why this book resonated with me. Conrad is a child packaged in a tin can who arrives in the post by accident. His chance caregiver is the feral, endearingly anarchic Mrs Bartolotti. Neither of them play by the society-designated rules for adults or children. But Conrad must learn to be a convincing “real” child if they are to stay together. Poignant and funny; for me, more so in retrospect. It made me think that telling stories was a way to understand the oddness of being alive.
The author I came back to
George Saunders. A college drop-out, I studied with the Open University when my daughter was young, then received a bursary to return to university to study for an MA and PhD in creative writing studies. A lecturer introduced to me to CivilWarLand in Bad Decline. I prefer reading short stories to novels because they are usually braver in terms of the use of structure or narrative voice. Saunders feels courageous across the board. For me, Lincoln in the Bardo is a work of genius, complete but fragmented, grotesque and poignant, with a bleak seam of gallows humour. I love the traffic between the dead and the living in his work.
The book I reread
We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Or in fact anything by Shirley Jackson, who is the perfect writer to lead me somewhere twisted and wry and difficult.
The book I could never read again
Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. Thinking about the story as a hallucinatory clash between good and evil – and the disastrous consequences that might arise if you had the freedom to act on your worst impulses – is fun and satisfying. But on the line, it’s just a gaggle of wealthy bachelors bumbling around London. The female characters are relegated to a small girl mown down by Hyde and a maid who faints. For such a small book it throws a big shadow.
The book I am currently reading
I usually have two on the go, fiction and nonfiction. North Woods by Daniel Mason, which takes the setting of the same house in New England through four centuries. I’m also reading Joan Schenkar’s excellent biography The Talented Miss Highsmith: The Secret Life and Serious Art of Patricia Highsmith which shifts dizzyingly through time, although not chronologically. It is strong and sinewy but light on its feet, like a boxer with a terrifying left hook. I came to it intrigued by Highsmith’s obsession with snails and stayed for insights into someone as fascinating and disturbing as the fictional killers she invented.
My comfort read
Anything by Kelly Link. Her fiction is wonderfully off-kilter but makes perfect sense to me. She’s been variously called a writer of magical realism, or modern fables, or postmodern fairytales. I feel she ought to be in a genre of her own. I wouldn’t say the read would be entirely comforting, but her stories are always original and that offers its own comfort.
