My earliest reading memory
I used to regularly reread my bright green copy of the Guinness Book of Records. I can still clearly picture the woman with the longest fingernails in the world.
My favourite book growing up
I loved the world-building in Michelle Paver’s Wolf Brother series. Its stone age setting was different to anything I knew, but so easy to imagine being a part of.
The book that changed me as a teenager
I bought NW by Zadie Smith because its cover design was so striking. I had no idea she was such a big deal! Once I finished it, I sought out the books that she recommended. That’s how I ended up reading Elizabeth Strout, George Saunders and Gustave Flaubert – which was a very good place to start.
The writer who changed my mind
I didn’t read biographies until I stumbled upon Dana Stevens’s book about Buster Keaton, Camera Man. She changed my mind about the genre, and now I can’t watch Keaton’s films without thinking about scenes from the book.
The book that made me want to be a writer
Reading short stories at university made me want to become a writer. Extra by Yiyun Li, A Temporary Matter by Jhumpa Lahiri and Recitatif by Toni Morrison stand out as early examples that got me to think differently about reading and writing.
The book or author I came back to
I didn’t get Heart of Darkness at all when I first read it, and was too quick to judge it. Thankfully, I revisited it and now count Joseph Conrad as one of my favourite writers. I love his prose style and the scale of ambition in his novels.
The book I reread
Teaching courses on the short story allowed me to regularly revisit some favourites. Two stories that never left my syllabus were Pet Milk and Paper Lantern by Stuart Dybek. After dozens of rereads, Dybek’s writing always feels new – I get swept along every time.
The book I could never read again
I listened to Karl Ove Knausgård’s My Struggle while training for a marathon. I think if I read it again, it would invoke some kind of Pavlovian response.
The book I discovered later in life
I have myself to blame for reading Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe later than I should have – it was on my university course but I missed the lecture. Since reading it, I struggle to get on with novels that don’t have any oomph to them. To hold my wavering attention, there’s got to be a sense of adventure and play either at the level of the plot or the sentence – Robinson Crusoe has both.
The book I am currently reading
I’m slowly making my way through Larry McMurtry’s epic western Lonesome Dove, which is a comedy of manners set on a cattle drive from Texas to Montana. The free indirect style is very Jane Austen and the dialogue very John Wayne.
My comfort read
I sometimes take Sheila Heti’s Alphabetical Diaries on the tube to work. Dipping in and out of it at random is as close as I can get to meditation during rush hour.