The Joy Of Reading
A behind-the-scenes series of articles that chronicle my journey from writing stories for fun to published author of an ongoing series of crime fiction novels.
As the only child from a marriage broken by divorce, and raised by a working, single dad, there were plenty of times when I was left on my own while he went to work at the two-screen fleapit cinema in Dewsbury. Sometimes I would go with him. I remember watching Star Wars shortly after its release (and long before it got the title of A New Hope added to the opening crawl), sitting in the projection booth aged 5, spinning on the tall stool as TIE Fighters attacked the Millenium Falcon as it fled from the Death Star. The staff of the cinema were truly a small family and they helped raise me—I would sit in the ticket booth with Sue while she punched tickets (and the occaisional drunk); I would go with Shirley when she cleaned the screens (always keeping an eye out for those black devils—cockroaches), and sometimes I’d sit with Brenda, the manager, while she did all the paperwork and fought on the phone with suppliers.
I’d sit with them, keeping quiet and out of the way as instructed by a father who had few options but lots of love. I’d sit and drink juice and read the comics I’d brought from home or had been generously provided by Brenda, Shirley or Sue or one of the other staff. Sometimes Dad brought me back a Beano or Dandy after his quick pub lunch with Dennis, the other projectionist—I wasn’t allowed to go to the pub then. Too young; but we made it for it a few times before he died. It’s where my love of porkpie and mushy peas comes from, and quite possibly my love for 80’s rock.
I loved reading the comics. Beano and Dandy became Batman and Dan Dare, Superman and Star Wars, but pretty soon that moved to books, because my aunt and uncle, who also took a lot of responsibility in raising me while dad was still alive (and then sole responsibility after he died), were teachers and it was in their nature to teach and see me thrive and grow. My uncle had a collection of James Bond novels which I eventually got to, but the first book I remember reading was The Hobbit. They encouraged and prompted, gave suggestions but never forced. It was always my choice, but as they did throughout my life, they always offered me the better choice to make—whether I did or not, well, that was down to me.
After Dad died and I moved in with my aunt and uncle—I would be twelve or thirteen at this point—I drank in books like an alcoholic. I joined the Ossett Library and consumed the entire Doctor Who series. I read the Hardy Boys, and I discovered Terry Brooks and the Shannara series of fantasy novels.
I didn’t then and don’t now have a lot of friends. In fact I can count having had only one true friend who has long since gone their own way (just as Fleetwood Mac prophesised), getting on with their life after we parted ways since leaving high school. He went on to college, while I started working and we drifted apart. I say this to show that I chose instead to sit at home and read rather than go to parties, or clubs, or hang out in the park. I prefered my own company—still do, save that of the wife, who has become my one true friend. On those rare occaisions I go to the pub, I’m the sad-sack in the corner, nursing a pint and reading a book. My idea of a good Saturday is to hunt the charity shops to add to my Ian Rankin, John Grisham or Stephen King collections. Luckily my wife feels the same. I check out World of Books on a near daily basis. I watch author interviews on YouTube.
I love reading.
I went through a serious depression a few years ago and all the joy of a lot of hobbies disappeared. I couldn’t paint toy soldiers anymore; I lost all interest in playing tabletop games and all the latest movies seemed stale and flavourless. But I still continued to read. It was a struggle; my attention span lasted just a few minutes. A book would now take the best part of a month or two to read, but it got finished as I plundered along a page at a time.
I love reading.
Recently my wife was diagnosed with cancer (on Valentine’s Day of all things!). The following months were a blur of tests, surgeries, hospital stays, a nasty infection, radiotherapy, more tests and hard recovery, and through that time I knocked back books like whiskey shots. Four John Grisham’s, followed by a couple of Rankin’s. A quick nip of a Lin Anderson and then back to a Rankin (I’m currently reading In A House Of Lies).
I love reading.
Going back to my childhood, it was inevitable that after enjoying so many writers’ work I would want to try my hand at my own stories and I did.