My earliest reading memory
It was not until I was seven that a teacher began to realise I was unable to read. Nowadays it would be diagnosed as dyslexia, but at the time that was unheard of. So I was later than most children to discover a special book. And when I finally did, it was due to my grandmother listening to the radio. I woke up and heard an eerie voice crying, “Let me in.” Her bedroom was at the end of a dark corridor so, terrified, I burst into the room. It was Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë.
My favourite book growing up
Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. When I saw the movie the characters I’d pictured became real, especially Katharine Hepburn’s Jo March. I also grew fond of poetry and learned Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene by heart.
The writer who changed my mind
It was not until I became an actor that I began to devour the written word, not in novels but plays. Ibsen, Strindberg, Chekhov, Shakespeare, Shaw – it was unending and educational. Whether or not due to my lack of ability when I was young, I rarely if ever spent time reading novels. I was acting in many of the plays and that was imperative to understand the authors’ intentions.
The book that made me want to be a writer
I came to writing after working as an actor for many years. When I was working on a badly written series I asked its script editor how to get an idea accepted and I was told to send storylines in to their script department. I wrote four short two-page ideas. They were all rejected but written across one in pencil was the word “brilliant”. I rewrote the script, and sent it into Verity Lambert, an innovative and exceptional producer running Euston Films. It was called Widows, and it changed my life.
The author I came back to
In 1993 I was at an event in New York promoting the release of all of Raymond Chandler’s short stories. I hadn’t read any of them, nor his novels, so I acquired the lot. It was a feast of brilliance: his character studies, fast-moving dialogue and wit gave me hours of pleasure that summer. I often reread his books, and they still make me laugh out loud, especially his letters.
The book I could never read again
Little Women. I have such lovely memories of what it meant to me that I want to keep it that way.
The book I discovered later in life
Napoleon by Frank McLynn. Watching the film by Abel Gance was one of the most memorable evenings of my life. It was made in 1927: his technique and camera work are astounding. The cinema audience applauded in awe when the screens opened up into three sections depicting the battle scenes. McLynn’s biography excels and astonishes, too – the facts surrounding his family and life are captured in such detail.
The book I am currently reading
The Price of Innocence, which is about Shirley McKie [a police officer falsely accused of leaving a fingerprint at a crime scene]. It is not only very disturbing, but also informative about forensic finger printing. That book is for work, so I usually have another for pleasure. Right now it’s The Only Girl by Robin Green, journalist, producer and writer of The Sopranos.
• Lynda La Plante’s Taste of Blood is published by Bonnier. To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
