As a child, when I lost myself in books, the outside world became invisible. Therefore, I would have been oblivious to this photograph being taken, the unwitting subject of my Dad testing out his new camera.

I read constantly—everything and anything. The village library at the corner of the street attempted to supply my insatiable demand, but eventually I read my way through the whole children’s section and ventured into adults’ fiction (there was no YA back then), where James Herbert and Stephen King awaited. I still have an inordinate fear of both rats and clowns!

Stories truly came alive at night. Something about the darkness heightened my imagination. The only thing more magical than reading was reading when I should have been asleep. At bedtime, my parents would turn my light out with strict instructions not to switch it back on.

The solution was simple. Our living room had one of those old-fashioned frosted interior windows. It cast just enough diffused light into the hallway and up the stairs for me to read by. Night after night, I nestled on one of the stairs with my book. There I would read in the dim light, accompanied by the comforting sound of visitors or the TV. I wasn’t breaking the rules, just bending them, and I wasn’t going to sleep anyway. Not until the Famous Five had solved the mystery or Anne Shirley had extricated herself from her latest scrape.

Reading inevitably became writing, and I’m still obsessed with both today. I’ll often read long into the night and love the magic of losing yourself in a great narrative when the world has stilled and quieted. It’s the best time to write undisturbed, too.

When my parents eventually discovered my scheme, they warned me that reading in the dark would wreck my young eyes. I wear glasses now. Perhaps they were right.