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I read my father's books growing up. I thought then and I still think now that his writing is wonderful. It delights and infuriates me in equal measure that he's still that good.

I grew up in a house full of books and parents who read, which led to me to reading from a very young age. And reading seemed to naturally progress to writing.

My parents were avid readers. Both had ambitions to write that had been abandoned early in life in order to get on with life.

My dad's passion was to teach adults to read so they could read to their kids.

I was a terrible reader as a kid. I mean terrible. Super slow and very unfocused. It took me forever to read a book, and I remember being well into high school and still needing my mom to sit down and read aloud to me so I could pass my English tests and such.

I love to read. But I loved to read a lot longer than I started to love writing.

I both admired my father and his writing, and I saw how much he valued it.

I didn't read at all until I was 12. I just couldn't. It was too frustrating.

My dad would go to work every day and write in a room full of funny people. He enjoyed it. I know great writers who find the process agonising but to me, writing has always been sheer joy.

I've known since I was 12 that I wanted to write. My father was a teacher, and there were so many books around, it seemed natural to pick them up.