We are all fans of Sophie Hannah and I am thrilled to announce that her new Zailer & Waterhouse Mystery goes on sale today! Woman with a Secret is smart and perplexing featuring Nicki, a seriously flawed but sympathetic protagonist with many secrets that may or may not be related to the murder of a high profile journalist.
Sophie is celebrating her book birthday with an LLF post!
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When I was a teenager, I went through a long phase of reading only blockbusters with swirly, embossed titles, written by authors with at least three parts to their names: Barbara Taylor Bradford, June Flaum Singer, Helen Van Slyke (I made an exception for Laramie Dunaway, whose Hungry Women I just adored). The swirlier the title, and the swirlier the author, the better – that was my motto. After a few years of obsessively reading 'fat shinies' (as I called them), I was summoned by my father for a chat one day. 'I think you ought to read more serious, worthwhile books sometimes,' he said. He offered to go with me to our local library so that I could choose these more worthwhile books.
It might surprise those of you who know me as I am now to learn that I only, in fact, became gobby and take-no-nonsense-ish at the age of approximately 42 (I am now 44). At 16, I was a total pushover; I was a Yes-teen. If I'd said, 'Actually, no, the very idea makes me wilt inside,' I'm sure my father would not have forced this trip to the library upon me, but instead I said, 'I agree. Let's go and find those very worthwhile books', while secretly thinking, 'I hate this! My soul is in torment!' (I was then and I remain extremely melodramatic.)
Off we went to the library. I remember my foul mood to this day. The shelves of my local library saved me. My dad had suggested biographies as a category of worthwhile book, so I headed straight for the biography section. Imagine my delight when I found a memoir by a dissolute Hollywood actress! She'd had many affairs with married men and devoted most of her adult life to alcoholism, often while behind the wheel of a car. My teenage heart soared as I saw a way of bringing non-worthwhile-ness into my supposedly worthwhile reading! My plan was simple yet brilliant: I would read memoirs by and about the debauched and the depraved. And so I diligently did, and I'm still fond of all those louche low-lifes I read about. I feel rather as if they and I are part of a secret gang. Without knowing it, Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen are, like, totally my best mates.
Now, when I try to persuade my 11-year-old son to read, I say, "But look: I'm offering you books about boys who spend all their lives on computers! Why don't you read those? Anyone'd think I'm asking you to read about swots who don't have Call of Duty fed into their bodies by intravenous drip every second of every day!'
Anyone would think I'm asking him to read something…actually, I can't say or think the word 'worthwhile' without a minor shudder. Even at forty-four. And in any case, it's the reading itself and the loving of books – any books – that's that thing, the W thing, the W word that I will possibly never say or write again.
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Thank you, Sophie!
– Annie