Writing’s a funny thing. Sometimes I’m so into it I don’t want to be distracted (or intimidated) by reading someone else’s work. Other times I find I’m practically eating my way through books – writing whenever I can in the day and then immersing myself in other people’s words at night.
I have to say, whichever state I’m in, there’s always something very reassuring about having a teetering pile of books beside the bed, just waiting to be enjoyed. My pile is looking particularly enticing at the moment. I’m about to start the new Nicci French, very kindly sent to me by a friend in London, but I can’t wait to dive into the rest. Where do I go after Blue Monday? Any suggestions gratefully received.