One of my earliest memories of reading comes from my time at the village primary school, where the headteacher captivated us with eerie ghost stories from Cumbria. This experience was undoubtedly influential. I can also recall my mother reciting playful rhymes, such as “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s.” My father frequently read the Ant and Bee series to me, often returning home from work just in time for our nightly story sessions. However, my first memory of independent reading is the charming tale of The Story of Ferdinand by Leaf and Lawson, a book that left a lasting impression on me.
As a child, I found large books somewhat overwhelming, which delayed my ability to fully appreciate them.
During my teenage years, the book that had a significant impact on me was Z for Zachariah by Robert C. O’Brien. I can’t pinpoint the exact age when I read it, but I believe I was around 13. It was a transformative moment for me, as I discovered a compelling female protagonist. Ann Burden, a clever young woman, survives a nuclear disaster and cleverly navigates the challenges posed by a male scientist intent on dominating her. I experienced a mix of fear, anger, and exhilaration as I witnessed her strength and determination to challenge traditional norms and patriarchal authority. I recently passed this novel on to my daughter as an “inheritance track,” and she has thoroughly enjoyed it.
Writers like Angela Carter and Buchi Emecheta profoundly influenced my perspective on female narratives, creativity, and life. They taught me the importance of not being passive or confined to stereotypes and emphasized how taking action can transform a situation. For instance, a mother riding in on horseback and confronting her daughter’s oppressive husband is a powerful image. If someone destroys your manuscript, just leave and write it again.
A long line of poets inspired my love for the vibrancy of language, with Kathleen Jamie being a notable example. When it comes to fiction, Michael Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter was pivotal in my desire to become a writer. This novel occupies a unique space in literature, unconcerned with strict definitions of genre. I read it shortly after earning my English degree while living in the southern United States. Despite being set in early 1900s New Orleans, its atmosphere and cultural elements felt very much alive to me.
I often revisit Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, primarily because it receives so much praise, yet I struggle to finish it as it never feels psychologically authentic to me.
I find myself returning to Ferdinand the bull. Every time there is a surge of toxic masculinity or political strife, the story challenges conventional ideas of strength. The concept of being powerful yet non-violent is truly beautiful. In my adult life, James Salter stands out as a guiding light for me. His writing is uncompromisingly honest, and each sentence is crafted with exceptional beauty.
Although I appreciate having encountered Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, I recall finding the book somewhat tedious (I hope I’m forgiven for this opinion). It led me to discover Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, a novel I have happily revisited.
Later in life, I discovered Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy, which I found to be brilliant. While I initially had reservations about novels focused on historical figures due to their inherent publicity, it was absurd to apply that perspective to Mantel—an original talent who brilliantly brings the past to life. This trilogy represents a groundbreaking approach to historical fiction.
Currently, I am reading Wolves: Behaviour, Ecology and Conservation by L. David Mech and Luigi Boitani, as part of my research for a film script.
For comfort reading, I used to peruse a worn dictionary of lighthouse codes, which details the distinctive signal patterns of lighthouses worldwide—perhaps a remnant of a previous life as a mariner. Nowadays, my go-to comfort read is The Little Book of Humanism by Alice Roberts and Andrew Copson, which distills 2,000 years of wisdom into 250 pages and conveys a straightforward message: we have the power to improve our circumstances.
Helm by Sarah Hall will be released in paperback by Faber on April 9. To support the Guardian, you can order your copy at guardianbookshop.com, though delivery charges may apply.
