Dear Anonymous

It’s been a while since we were in touch, but this time I thought it should be me who initiated a conversation. Because while we are old acquaintances, I have never before sought you out or told you bluntly how I feel about our relationship.

Firstly, let’s refresh our memories with the details of our most significant encounters.

Top of the list has to come our very first introduction.  I was fourteen years old, and you will probably remember that it was the first time my parents had ever left me alone for a couple of nights in our big, old, sixteenth-century house with its dark backyard and secluded location.  I can still recall my nervous prowling from room to room, flicking on light switches to make sure mysterious bogey-men and unnamed monsters weren’t lurking in the shadowed corners and closets.

So who would have thought my worst fears would come true and that would be the night you would first telephone me to say hello?  You were watching me, you said, and you had been watching me for a while – and didn’t I know who you were because you were always near? I could hear the dark pleasure in your voice; your slow, steady breathing.

Anonymous, it is hard to convey the fear you stirred in me as I stood holding the phone in that unlit room. Who were you? What did you want with me?  And why were you laughing at my silent terror? You knew it would be a very long time before my home, my street, would look familiar or safe again. You knew that you had planted a thought in my head which would stay for months.

Fast forward a lot of years, and now I am a businesswoman – professional, much too busy, a manager of many people, awash with schedules and deadlines. So how could I know that Thursday morning would be the day you would re-enter my life? A different guise, a different agenda, but the same old anonymity.  A package, postmark blurred, heaped innocently with the mail.  I ripped it open and pages spilled out – a letter, suggesting that you knew a lot about me and only had my best interests at heart. But you didn’t – because I have spent my life working with language, and I heard the vicious twist of the knife in your voice as you set out to undermine and destroy. And then the same the following Thursday - the carefully repeated performance, the blackness of your impeccable timing, knowing that a simple day of the week could become imbued with an anxiety that made it hard to breathe.

But, there is more, isn’t there. Now I’m an agent and I meet you again, for you, Anonymous, are the one who wrote to me, complaining about my blog. I actually thought you had a point, and goodness knows I’m not perfect; I do try to listen and learn. But your message has all the hallmarks I’ve come to expect from my old friend Anonymous – the self-righteous air, the mean-spirited tone, though this new model comes with the added piquance of implacability. I offer to telephone you if you would reveal yourself – but no, Anonymous is not a forgiver or forgetter. And certainly not a discusser. You are safe out there in your dark virtual cave and there’s no way you’re coming out into the light.

There have been other flirtations between you and I, and now, Anonymous, I see you everywhere in this literary world - on blogs, in chat-rooms, in Secret Agent contests and Amazon reviews - anywhere where people congregate, and especially where you might have a chance of bringing down the successful. I discover that most well-known authors have encountered you somewhere, some time. And while they try to laugh you off and ‘grow a thicker skin’, I think you know better than any of us that there is something strangely malevolent about the faceless intruder, ‘the paw under the door’.

And now, unsurprisingly, I see you start to approach my own clients, popping up on their sites, undermining their equanimity, ripping into their work, and I rise up like a Mother Lion, because, Anonymous, I’ve had enough of you.

I have tried to think whether there could be any good reasons for you being The Great Unnamed. But I can’t come up with any, because I believe that if you have something to say you should stand up and say it face to face, or at least with your name attached.  And anyway, if you have good intentions how strange it is that your words are so rarely kind or uplifting or generous.

Let’s face the facts. You enjoy the darkness and the freedom you find there. Because if you came out into the startling light of accountability you would be caught, transfixed, by our eyes, and any face-to-face encounter would force you to acknowledge the humanity of those you address.

Anonymous, we have a history, you and I. Our relationship was born many years ago when I was young and powerless and alone in a dark house.  But now there’s something I want to tell you straight. To be anonymous is to be cowardly. Own your opinions, admit to your feelings, and find ways to express them that would allow for genuine dialogue. It’s time to stand up and be a . . . man? A woman?

Now the tables have turned. Because, Anonymous, now I am watching YOU.

Yours sincerely

Sarah Davies
The Greenhouse Literary Agency.

My first West Coast visit, and I’m with Randy Newman – ‘I love LA!’

I headed out west with all the excitement of an early pioneer - in search of film agents, movie makers, blue skies, beautiful people, and all the star-studded cast of SCBWI’s massive summer conference. And was I disappointed? No! Fold back the roof, put on the big dark glasses, point me in the direction of Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive, and man – this is the life. Here’s the church where Elizabeth Taylor got married; there’s Michael Douglas’s pied-a-terre; and Hi there, Nicholas Cage! Oh, those wreaths are on MICHAEL JACKSON’S front gate? And isn’t that the house where they filmed Ocean’s Eleven?

You should always be walking forward, and Greenhouse’s steps this week (as I stood in Tom Hanks’s footprints on the Walk of Fame) felt like big strong strides.

Just in case you don’t know, SCBWI LA is a whopper of a conference.  For you Brits reading this, think of the biggest writers’ event you’ve ever attended – and multiply by . . . let’s say a hundred times? Here you’re on a big canvas, with people from many backgrounds and many time zones (except, of course for Wyoming, the only non-attendee state in the Union), all gathered to learn about writing, talk about books, network, wear bizarre costumes at the Blue Moon Ball – and get very, very over-tired. It’s a full-on assault, it’s a thousand interesting people, ten thousand stories (fictional and real) all in one place. And if you’re on the Faculty, as I was, it’s extraordinary.

So, bearing in mind I arrived in town three days before the conference to see film agents, here are my LA highlights.  For which you need to know that the Agents’ Panel (Dan Lazar of Writers’ House, Marietta Zacker of the Nancy Gallt Agency, Brenda Bowen of the Sanford J. Greenburger Agency, Kelly Sonnack of the Andrea Brown Agency, Stephen Fraser of the Jennifer deChiara Agency . . .  and me from Greenhouse) was a line in the sand in various ways, so this has to be divided into BPH (Before Panel Highlights) and APH (After Panel Highlights).

BPH

Driving from the airport. Blue skies, no humidity, NO MOSQUITOS, palm trees, big big highways.  It’s been an exciting road from London to get here, and I’m not talking about the mileage.

My room at the Hyatt – a.k.a. Base Camp for a week.  A big table covered in draft speeches, business cards, files of work, water bottles, submission lists (nothing stops just because I’m away), battery chargers for Kindle and Blackberry. And pink swim goggles. How cool that Shark Week is on HBO? Nothing like relaxing in the evening to the sight of limbs being chomped off by Great Whites.

My balcony – and the glass edifice opposite (home to top agents CAA). Through the central ‘hole’ in the building I look at the distant hills and wonder what’s out there. Frankly, it’s a giant metaphor.

Big corporate film agents; small boutique agents; agents who love books; agents who drop names that make you blink. Ah yes, downstairs is Will Smith’s company? I see, so you represent Miley Cyrus? Through the big and the small, I have my chosen group – the film agents to whom Greenhouse will offer partnership on our upcoming projects with film potential. We don’t want an exclusive tie-up with one agency – we want personal passion and belief; the right agent for the right project. The film business is very, very tough and these are the guys who do the deals out here.

Watching the hotel fill up, in a matter of hours, with hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of SCBWI conference attendees.  It’s a swarm! An inundation! I skulk behind a plant with my cappuccino, watching.

The hotel Business Center. Like a mole I inhabit this dim, underground world for hours at a time. In fact, the manager even gives me a discount – he’s so sorry for anyone shut down there when the sun and pool are calling from above. It’s here I receive the two-book offer on my recent submission. And it’s at the Faculty Dinner, out under the stars, that I realize other top NY editors want it too!

Listening to Sherman Alexie kick off the conference with his extraordinarily powerful speech. And then meeting him in the lobby. Be still, my beating heart, I am in awe of this man.

Critiques, critiques, critiques. In the world’s chilliest room, I do seven half-hour one-to-ones with writers. Show not tell, imbue your writing with a sense of place, try to focus your story in those early pages – I find myself repeating the same tips.

Finalizing a deal for a middle-grade novel by one of SCBWI’s Regional Advisers. What could be more exciting than letting an author know at this conference that they will be published!

Lunching with old friend Riley Ellis of Fox at the studio’s Commissary. Riley (film scout and executive producer) was involved with LAST OF THE MOHICANS and MARLEY AND ME, and so many more films. We talk about many people and many books.

Lying in the sun in an armchair out on the hotel’s deck. I sink behind my Kindle, my nametag concealed, reading manuscripts and listening secretly to fascinating conversations between writers. Everyone has a story – how they came to be here, their dreams.

My birthday – and phone calls/texts from my family in various parts of the world (sister in Spain, sons in London and the West Bank). My first workshop: ‘Writing and Selling in the Global Marketplace’. A fair turnout as I talk about selling rights, being published abroad, contractual issues.  Did they enjoy it? Did they find it interesting?

Birthday dinner in Beverly Hills with Elizabeth Law (Egmont) and fellow Brit/former-publisher-turned-film-scout Fiona Kenshole (Laika). Elizabeth spots someone famous at the next table – I know his face, but goodness knows what his name is.

THE PANEL – Looking out from the stage at 1,100 people. Aware of the giant images of ourselves behind our heads. Searching carefully for the right words to answer Lin Oliver’s questions about our agencies and the marketplace. Knowing how important the nuances are, and the privileged role we have in guiding authors towards publication.

APH

The Golden Kite Awards. Richard Peck, Richard Peck, Richard Peck. If I could speak half as well as him I would have to die happy.  Here is greatness.

Smiling and chatting and answering questions – a lot. No more incognito. No more manuscript reading on a quiet Kindle.

Talking and talking, holding a plate of food, and a glass of wine – simultaneously - at the New Moon Ball. Everyone is so friendly, and the costumes are amazing – well, at least my dress is blue.

My final workshop: ‘A Recipe for Writing the Breakout Novel: 5 Ingredients for Success’. A lot of people. More than I’d ever have believed.  Greenhouse authors Val Patterson and Lindsey Leavitt are at the back as I read from their books, which feels very special. I love this – just love it. OK, I’ll be honest – I’m having a wonderful time.

Flying home overnight – drained but exhilarated. I unpack and go straight to my computer. Things don’t stop, and I have an auction to prepare for. Someone once said – ‘If you do the job you love, you never do a day’s work in your life.’

Los Angeles. Inspiring, significant, strategic, exhausting. Fun. And I’m already excited at the thought of going back.

It is summer, and in the mist of early morning the boat sways silent as a lily pad.

It is summer, and the heat fragments me to so many summers past. The filthy shack in Brittany, the silent Rhynnog mountains, the shooting star over a Sicilian amphitheatre.  Time concertinaed at the scent of sunblock.

It is summer, and I achieve a personal best – sixteen mosquito bites on one leg.

It is summer, and with the sun blazing outside I do three deals beneath a ceiling fan’s languid spin. I laugh quietly to myself and say hah! to the idea that publishers aren’t buying books.

It is summer, and we hear there are two pups left in the litter of wire-haired dachshunds.  We are going to see them.  (I think we all know where this is going.)

It is summer, and Anne-Marie Conway becomes a professional writer with a three-book deal for STARMAKERS with Usborne in the UK.  She demonstrates so much I know to be true about this business – that it is the equation of talent plus determination plus flexibility that pays off.

It is summer, and I wonder how you can never have enough white, wide-leg pants in the closet – and yet they look like rejects from Planet Zog during the remaining eight months of the year.

It is summer, and I hope that people will choose my talk on ‘Writing and selling in the global marketplace’ at SCBWI LA.  Because I will be far from home on this birthday, and I’d like to share it with you.

It is summer, and the humid night is loud with the scratching, chirping rumpus of cicadas and frogs.

It is summer, and Simon & Schuster win a tense fight for UK and Commonwealth rights in Brenna Yovanoff’s FE.  Two auctions, two sides of the Atlantic.  And we have unequalled reach, unequalled knowledge, for these transatlantic deals.

It is summer, and soon I will walk down Avenue of the Stars for the first time.

It is summer, and I bake my first brownies – like molten lava, laced with 97% chocolate and four kinds of nut, you will expand simply by looking at them.

It is summer, and I sell Lindsey Leavitt’s novel, SEAN GRISWOLD’S HEAD, to Scholastic in the UK.  She now has four English-language publishers (Hyperion US/Egmont UK for PRINCESS FOR HIRE and Bloomsbury US/Scholastic UK for SEAN). I am very, very satisfied at this exploitation of rights –the first task of the literary agent.

It is summer, and I would like to lie outstretched on the cool grass and stare up at the sky.  But it’s not time to stop yet, there is so much more to do.

It is summer, and we have helped to change some people’s lives for the better. The best job in the world, and the greatest privilege.

It is summer.

1 Even a cod can be sacred

I must admit that I wouldn’t have been convinced had I not gone to Boston for the first time last weekend and seen the Sacred Cod with my own eyes.  For those who don’t know, the Cod hangs in splendour in the Massachusetts state house—and is now, for me, the emblem of a city which has grabbed my heart. Boston has it all – history (tons of the stuff), coffee shops, elegant new buildings, boat trips across the harbour, ancient graveyards, crabcakes of succulent loveliness, antiquarian book stores to die for.. . . and Beacon Hill, which has now become # 46 (in no particular order) of ‘places Sarah would like to live.’ Britain’s favourite food – cod and chips – will never look the same again. And long live Boston Cream Pie!

2 There are some eras during which one is fortunate not to have lived

Part 1: I had always considered myself pretty knowledgeable on the First World War (the 1914-18 variety), partly due to having spent many happy hours as a child/teenager pulling my father’s books on the subject out of his glass-fronted mahogany bookcases and reading accounts of the Somme (and other holocausts) that were entirely inappropriate for my age. And also because the man my Granny really wanted to marry (as opposed to his brother whom she actually did marry) died at Ypres. However, Hew Strachan’s extraordinary TV series that Husband and I are currently watching night after night has immersed us in a grey, grainy, great-coated misery that reveals things we didn’t know – Italian soldiers fighting high in the Alps. And oh, the poor Serbs . . .  A great, groaning agony that spat out a new world.

Part 2: Yesterday I added Antietam to the list of civil-war battlefields I have visited.  British people don’t grow up knowing much about the American civil war so here, only a few miles from the first battle of Manassas, I have made it my business to find out.  On September 17, 1862, McLellan and the Union army met General Robert E. Lee and his army of Northern Virginia near Sharpsburg, Maryland. The result – known as Antietam after the creek of that name - was the bloodiest day of combat in American history. Thousands died in the Cornfield. Thousands died on the Sunken Road, known now as Bloody Lane. Twenty-three thousand in all. We walked through the soft, shimmering grass of summer and saw them.

3 Parents never stop worrying about or missing their children

I have one in the Middle East, somewhat ill, doing things that are anxiety-inducing, in extreme heat. I have another four weeks off starting at U California, but currently one visa short of a full load. Need I say more.

4 It is not a good sign when you dream about your Blackberry

But that is what I did last night. It seems that in my dream I was in New York at some publishing event, attended by those lovely people from Egmont USA.  Regina Griffin was (in my dream) moving house, and suddenly – before my eyes – my Blackberry doubled in size and turned into a Garmin sat-nav.  Panic – where were my emails???? They had vanished and all I could see were roads.  This could either mean I’ve become very preoccupied with the planning for my upcoming trip to LA. Or it could just mean I’ve gone completely mad.

5 There is nothing like the exaltation of facing down your demons

I have two major demons.  One is Not Yet Ready to be Discussed.  The other, I conquered this week. It is embarrassingly feeble, so please be nice to me as I confess. Here goes:  ‘My name is Sarah and I used to be scared to swim with my face in the water.’ Now I can, with the help of my pink goggles.  OK, it’s a silly, small thing to you – but a great big thing to me. And now I can even do the crawl. Family members are in a state of shock; all the former order of the world has been overturned. Sarah’s hair gets wet. An old dog can learn new tricks! 

6 Everything matters to a writer

This is what I really, really believe – that everything we do and feel, all the things we experience, MATTER to our writing. Because these are the things that we are, and our writing comes from that place within us. What else can there be? The craft of writing simply orders and shapes that which we know. This is what I have:

Three blue flowers blooming among the waving grass of Bloody Lane. A fragment of stained grey coat that vanishes as I turn my head. The ache in my heart because however hard I try, I can’t make things ‘right’ for the people I love. An unfolding map that writes my onward journey. And the silence at the bottom of a deep, blue pool. 

It is from all these, and so much more, that I lay down my words.

7 Always keep a good horse to hand

Paul Revere knew this, and all those years ago he saw the lanterns, leapt on his horse and went charging out of Boston, yelling (though actually he didn’t really), ‘The British are coming! The British are coming!’

So, polish your bridle and prepare the oats.  Mr Revere was right. The British are indeed coming – and our names are Sarah and Julia.

Enjoy your week and take care.

This photograph may look like it’s a picture of a lonely heron holding out for a fish amid the tumult of Great Falls (Maryland), after a Spring of incessant rain.

It’s actually a picture of me (and Julia – you’ll have to imagine there’s a second little heron) watching the Greenhouse submissions pour into our inbox.

They arrive in ever greater numbers, and thank you for them. Hold my Blackberry in your hand and you see them slink in silently throughout the day across the timezones from the East Coast, then in the evening from the West Coast, then during my night and morning from the UK and Europe. There is probably no hour, day or night, when a submission for Greenhouse isn’t arriving for either Julia or I. Surely, I think, we must reach a point where everyone who’s going to write a novel has sent it? But no, and it’s the same every day of the year – even Christmas Day, New Year’s Day, Thanksgiving, the height of summer . . . you writers sure do have some energy!

So this week I thought I’d focus on submissions, not having mentioned them for a while and because I’ve also looked at lots recently.

The first thing I want to say is that they are ALL taken seriously.  We open every one knowing that this moment, this writer, this work, could be crucial – here could be the fish that the heron has sought for so long! The next one we open and read could be the mega-seller of tomorrow and we dare not miss it, because the bestseller of 2012 will probably come just like this – silently, without bells and whistles.  That is the focus we bring to you, so you should never feel your submission will be overlooked.  Our commercial (and literary) antennae are waving in the wind as we read, all ready to pick up a whiff of possibility.

So what can you do to help yourself – and to help us?  Because I see the same things again and again and again in submissions, I’m going to give you my top tips for submitting, though I admit that this is initially going to look more like a list of what NOT to do. I apologize in advance if I hurt anyone’s feelings, but some things just have to be said.  Here goes:

1. Always do what the agency (and I mean ANY agency, not just ours) asks you to do in terms of submission. And to find out what that is, read their website – don’t just take info from either a hard-copy or online guide. Both of these (especially the hard copy) can be out of date.  Greenhouse changed its submission guidelines in September 08 – to e-submissions only – but we’re still getting paper submissions, often without either SASE or email address.  And I still get attachments, which we also don’t accept.  I reply to what I can, but it’s frustrating and time-consuming – and there’s no way we have time to write snail-mail letters back to you.

2. Only submit the kind of work the agency says it’s interested in. I receive adult fiction, religious work, short stories, picturebooks, illustrations, even TV scripts – all of which we don’t represent. If you see any listing that says we take adult work, please let me know. Probably 20% of submissions we get are for genres that we don’t represent.

3. Beware cut and paste! I laugh a lot when I’m addressed as Dan Lazar (that was the latest), the Prospect Agency etc etc.  Or when people tell me they are enclosing an SASE (with their email). Also, I’d like to announce that my name is SARAH DAVIES, not Sara Davis, because multitudes arrive with my name wrong (in fact, one has just arrived even as I write this). It’s not a life-and-death thing, but would you like constantly to be addressed by the wrong name? Especially when writers are telling me they’ve read our website and are sure I’m the perfect agent for them.

4. Around 50% of submissions open with either a) a character getting up in the morning (often eating breakfast) or b) moving house or c) a dream. Sometimes all these together. I’m not saying this is wrong, exactly – I’m just saying try for a more original opener. Oh, and another 10% start with a loud noise: WHAM, BAM, POW, CRASH, RRRRING!

5. Less is so often more. Don’t overwrite your first sentence in an attempt to be attention-grabbing. Eg, ‘The tumultuous pain rampaged through every seething capillary like a mallet pounding on Lucifer’s anvil.’ How about this instead: ‘My head hurt.’ Your reader’s attention is not seized by adjectives and adverbs; it’s all in the expectation you set up. How about this line: ‘I had a farm in Africa’.  It takes confidence and skill to write with simplicity.

6. If you are going to write about ‘a girl with powers’, you will have to be a great writer and have a particularly great plot.  Yes, supernatural, dark stuff is very commercial, but you’re in a zone where you’ve got huge competition right now. Those ‘powers’ are going to have to be really original and well depicted.

7. Be careful of making comparisons between yourself and any top author, whether it be Pullman, Meyer, Salinger, Rowling etc etc. You immediately set the bar so high for yourself you’re doomed not to measure up. And anyway, we already have all those great authors – what we’re looking for is someone new!

8. If I turn you down (which I try to do courteously) don’t rush back to tell me ‘Then you’ve missed out on something amazing and it’s your loss’.  And please don’t immediately send another submission, and then another, as if we’re robots who have no other deserving authors awaiting our attention. If you have another work to show us, then drop us a little note first asking if we’d like to see something more from you. If we liked the writing in your first piece (but didn’t love the plot) we’ll say yes, but don’t just blitz us and then chase us up if we don’t respond. You are submitting to people, not a ‘process’.

9. Beware writing/submitting massive work. I flinch when I see that someone’s written 100,000+ words. And also if you say your submission is the first in a 7-book series, of which you’ve already written numbers 1-6. (The one exception to this might be if it’s a very young, high-concept series.) It’s going to be hard to sell a huge debut novel, and publishers are going to be wary of committing to a long series. Much better to get the first book absolutely right, though you could map out a second if you want and maybe even write a one-page outline. The problem is, if you do rush ahead and write all these sequential novels, what happens if you get a deal and your editor wants a complete rewrite of Book 1 – as they almost certainly will. Suddenly you’ll find that all the other stories don’t work because the foundations were wrong.

10.It’s good (of course) to engage our interest from the start, but you don’t need to ask us ghastly questions in the first few sentences of your query.  Eg, ‘Have you ever wondered, Ms Davies, how it would feel if your children were slaughtered by a serial killer?’ Or ‘Can you imagine, Ms Churchill, the sensations you’d have if your entrails were pulled out through your nostrils and eaten by crows?’ No, I haven’t, and she can’t, thank you very much, and we don’t intend to start now.

11 Please don’t send either a) a two-line query without even giving your name at the end (because you’ve sent the attachment – hah! - to 5000 other agents and it’s a pain to write personally) or b) write a query the length of War and Peace, containing every twist and turn of your plot. A page-length query suffices nicely.

12 We give you the chance to show us your fabulous writing and request five opening pages to be pasted into your email. So why do so many submissions contain no writing?  It is your chance to shine! Plus, if we like your query we then have to email back again and ask for some writing – again, when we’re trying to make decisions on so many submissions in a timely way, this is frustrating (and it can be easier just to say no without asking for the writing).

13 Don’t outline at length your ambitions for a movie, TV series, or global merchandising deal (unless of course you have some outstanding qualification for being able to make these happen). Everything starts for us with the writing, and the book. If we sign you up and get you a book deal then other things at least become possible.

14. We are not enthusiastic about work that teaches children ‘lessons’. Of course, every great story will have meaning and depth, and leave the reader with things to think about. It’s also true that ‘the best fiction teaches us more about ourselves than about the characters’.  But writing that heavy-handedly aims to ‘educate children about life’ isn’t for us. We believe children and teens deserve entertainment without a barely hidden agenda.  (Besides, I tend to think it’s we adults who need ‘educating’ rather than children, but that’s another issue . . . )

15. We also aren’t interested in fairy stories.  And while both Julia and I adore animals, especially dogs and cats, the truth is that there are tons of animal stories (and anthropomorphic animals) around, and your work is going to have to be really original, quirky and strong for us a to find a home for short, young, animal-centric fiction.

Now you hate me. Well, I hope not because we do try really hard to read your work carefully and get back to you (yes, we know you need closure, even though our ‘official’ guidelines say we only respond to those we want to take further).

So far it’s all been negative – but what do we actually WANT you to do in your query?

1. Read our submission guidelines – and follow them.

2. Remember we are only human and we are looking at around 100 per week (on top of all the other work we do).

3. Keep your query short and concise, giving us rapidly the key points we need to know: length, target market, one-paragraph plot outline, short bio of yourself.

4. Try to write simply and effectively, with an interesting, original start (remembering that you are mainly setting up the reader’s expectation of what will follow).

5. If you’ve got other stories in the pipeline and we’ve rejected you, don’t just send more – ask us first if we’d like to see something else you’ve written.

6. Do your homework. Are we the right agents for you? Approach all agents individually and carefully. Because when you get the details right, it makes us sure you’ll also be a meticulous writer.

Do all this and we’re delighted to hear from you. And as two little herons staring into the foaming torrent beneath, we’ll be all poised to swoop down and pluck the plump fish. And that fish could be YOU!

Oh, and just a couple of little afterthoughts:  To the gentleman (presumably) who enquired, on a certain writers’ chat board, as to my marital status?  Yes, I am married and my husband is VERY FIERCE, so you’re out of luck, though your interest is flattering. And to the tiny minority of you who are absolutely and genuinely terrifying, please note - I have a huge dog, with slavering jaws and a taste for human flesh. Honestly.

What is it about books?

At some point in 1983 the pictures in my childhood album start featuring a new motif. All of a sudden there’s a book in every photo. That’s me in the pink dress, reading Noddy to my grandmother.

Like many of you, I was a big reader as a little one. I’ve just spent a couple of days with my seven-year-old niece and she reminded me of that fierceness of feeling I had for books when I was her age. Can you remember learning how to read? It was so hard. The panicky tears, the pudgy, balled fists, lots of stamping and stubbornness. And then click. So begins a life-long love.

There is a headiness to those first few years of reading. I see it in my niece. Finding the right buy in a bookshop comes with all the fervour of a particularly high-stakes Easter-egg hunt. Those shimmering pink covers, those cover-mount giveaways and deliciously packaged, and oh-so-collectible, series reads. She carries her book out of the shop like it’s her most beloved piece of jewelry.

As a five year old, every Wednesday afternoon I’d practically hyperventilate with excitement before my trip to Battersea Library in London. Meg and Mog, Where The Wild Ones Are, Dr Seuss. And then later The Worst Witch, an Asterix and Tintin obsession, Sweet Valley High, Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton – who was contraband in school. Of course, the classics; The Secret Garden, The Borrowers, Narnia. Then, in come James Herbert, Stephen King and Jilly Cooper.

Can you remember your favourites? The ones that appealed to the bonkers five year old in you, the adventure-hungry eight year-old - the push, shove and wanderlust of the thirteenth year? Or the first time you realized that books could be very, very scary? Goosebumps, for me. The first book that made you sob till you were sick? Watership Down.

Storytelling used to be cave paintings and tree carvings, dance and song, and stories passed down the generations in front of the hearth. It was social. When I watch my niece read, I realize that books are also about the opposite. They’re about unplugging from the grid. She’s unplugging from computer games, TV, white-noise and household chatter. She’s withdrawing from us and occupying some space elsewhere.

In those early years books mean independence and taking control. They’re about important, grown-up, decisions in shops and libraries. They’re about new and fierce loyalties to characters and authors. Once you learn to read, a five-hour car journey isn’t the purgatory it was before. It’s transformed into midnight feasts and sea swimming competitions at Mallory Towers or sharks, desert islands and treasure hunts with The Hardy Boys.

When my niece and I get back from the bookshop she sits on the sofa, cracks the spine on her book and off she goes. She’s so focused on the faraway, her forehead is scrunched and I can almost hear her brain buzzing. She’s reading a bit above her age and I know the story has some scary bits. She looks so brave to me with her little white knuckles and her mind a million miles away. She makes me think of everything books gave me when I was little. I can see her heading past the blurred edges of the map and I realise that in that moment I’m watching her grow up.