I’ve been writing nearly as long as I can remember, penning my first ‘novel’ aged six, featuring the exploits of my luminous green toy bear. The story was scrawled in an exercise book – lavishly illustrated by the author – and spawned numerous sequels. Each instalment had a brutal ending and as soon as I finished one story I’d move dispassionately on to the next. Oh, to be so dauntlessly efficient today!
I have always loved the wonderful sensation of making a book. When I was eight I was imitating Enid Blyton and in my teens it was Ann Radcliffe, and I’d print these books on A5 paper, glueing and stapling them together, designing dustjackets, itemising
