How Reading Made Me a Writer

2026 is the National Year of Reading, and my publisher, Boldwood Books, is urging us to Go All In! So today I thought I’d talk about how reading made me a writer.

Were you a big reader as a child? I was. I’m afraid I was the classic bookworm from the day I learned to read. And believe it or not, I can remember that day as clear as - well - day. I remember sitting next to my primary school teacher and staring at the pages of a little book she’d given me. She was patiently pointing to the squiggles on the page and reading the words out to me.

And I swear - and I know how bizarre this sounds, believe me - I swear that those squiggles moved around on the page and formed themselves into words that I could understand. I know, I know. Crazy. But that’s honestly how I remember it, and I was sooo excited to be able to read. There was no stopping me!

I raced through the reading books at school. I never found any other hobby that interested me half as much. Reading has been my constant companion through life, and it got me through so many difficult days that I’m forever thankful that I took to it so easily.

I was always a little bookworm!

My mum wasn’t always so happy about it, though. The times she told me to ‘get your head out of that book and go outside to play’! I did go out to play a lot - I had no bloody choice to be honest! Like most children in those days, we were more or less turned out of the house and told not to come back until teatime! So off we went to the park, or to build dens, or go brambling, or ride our bikes. But I could never wait to get home to my books. Reading was everything to me.

Despite her desperation for me to go outside and play, Mum also read a lot. She had a whole walk-in cupboard full of books in her bedroom, and particularly loved Catherine Cookson books. She also read Mills and Boon books sometimes, and had various other romances on the go. My dad was also a big reader, but he preferred nonfiction. It was Dad who first took me to our local library, above the town hall, and introduced me to this amazing facility where I could browse shelf after shelf of fascinating stories before choosing three to take home with me - for free!

You can bet your life that I was at that library regularly, progressing eventually from the children’s room to the main adult room which was at least five times as big. I used to love finding a book or two then going to sit at the table in front of the window, just reading in peace and quiet. There’s no doubt in my mind that the library nurtured my love of reading.

Not just the town library either. I was very fortunate to have amazing libraries at the three schools I went to. The one at primary school was small, but it was cute, with lots of armchairs and shelves of exciting stories to explore. I found my first pony book there, sparking a lifelong love of the genre! At my lower high school the library was a godsend to a pony-mad girl like me. It was a huge room and there were dozens upon dozens of pony books. The teacher used to help me look for ones I hadn’t read, and I often staggered home after the library lesson at the end of the day with an armful of books - six, seven… Once I think I managed to take more than a dozen home with me!

The very first pony book I ever read.

When I went up to the upper high school it was a bit of a shock. No pony books! But it was there that I discovered Barbara Cartland, Jean Plaidy, Georgette Heyer, and Catherine Cookson. I hadn’t read any of my mum’s books, but when she found out I was happily reading them at school she gave me free rein to read anything I wanted from her own collection. We would compare notes on our favourite books. It was a brilliant time.

Of course, by then I’d long been old enough to catch the bus into town by myself, and I did so every Saturday, pocket money in hand, fully prepared to spend it all on books. Every week there’d be an excursion to WH Smith, where I’d carefully select a brand-new book as a special treat. Then it would be on to the local market where I’d excitedly scour the second-hand stalls, usually securing at least two more paperbacks to take home with me. Bliss!

When, though, did I start wanting to write my own stories? As far as I can remember, that happened after I started reading Tammy comic when I was around seven. We’d seen it advertised on TV and, as my little sister and I were off school and quarantined because she’d caught measles, my mum ordered it for us from the newsagent to cheer us both up. From then on, Saturdays became Tammy days, and I looked forward to hearing that letterbox going every week! I joined the Tammy Club and wore a little purple badge with pride.

One of my precious Tammy annuals.

I raced through the stories with delight, then faced a whole week’s wait for the next issue. And that, I think, is when I started to write my own stories. I was fed up waiting to find out what my favourite characters were up to, so I decided to create my own adventures for them. It was the same with the Enid Blyton books I read, and later the pony books that I read voraciously. Each book inspired me to try to write my own.

At school, when we were asked to write a short story, I would sometimes take characters from the latest book I’d been reading and weave them into a brand-new story. An early version of fan fiction! My head began to pop with story ideas, and I couldn’t begin to tell you how many writing pads I went through. I was still at primary school when I developed a ‘writer’s callus’ on my finger from having a pen pressed against it so often. I still have it, and I’m quite proud of it!

I stopped writing in my late teens as other interests developed and life unfolded in unexpected ways. But always there was reading. Books were my friends year after year, and never failed me. Catherine Cookson, Jilly Cooper, E.V. Thompson, Sue Townsend… Historical fiction, fantasy, romance, sagas, humour, nonfiction - I read it all. Other people’s characters. Other people’s stories.

One of my bookcases. I wish I had room for a whole library!

But one day, when I least expected it, some characters popped into my mind that didn’t belong to anyone else. They were the product of my own imagination, and before I knew it I was weaving a whole story around them. And then the idea for another story came. And then another… I’d never written a full novel before. I’d written countless ‘Chapter Ones’ but that’s as far as I’d ever got. I’d never really studied creative writing, apart from one module with the Open University some years previously, and I didn’t have any books about writing at the time.

I think, because I’d read so many novels in my life, I had a sort of built-in knowledge about how to structure one. It seemed instinctive. I’ve bought and read many ‘how-to-write’ books since, and sometimes refer back to them when my confidence is at a low ebb, but I do think nothing has helped me in my own writing as much as reading other people’s books. If someone asked me for advice about how to become a writer, the first thing I’d tell them is, ‘Read a lot.’

I’m now in the process of writing Book 38, and the ideas keep coming. As long as they do, I’ll keep writing.

But between you and me? Reading will always be my greatest love. There is no better escape than between the pages of a good book. Whether that’s an actual physical book, turning the pages electronically, or listening to the story as someone else tells it to you. It’s all reading. It all counts. It’s all magical.

I hope in this Year of Reading more people are encouraged to lose themselves in a wonderful story. There’s no feeling like it. We have, after all, been telling ourselves - and each other - stories since we first learned to communicate with each other. Stories make us what we are. They help us to process the world and they give us greater understanding and empathy.

They’re also a whole lot of fun!

Happy reading.