I’ve got gypsy blood. At school, they used to read my ghost stories out to the class and my writing just carried on from there. I live in England, but I dream of moving to Iceland, I think I could do some good writing there. When I was little, I knew that there was something magical about words. I was in awe of the library and the books appeared as infinite as stars, each with a different story or world. I suppose that in some way, these stories of mine are versions of worlds. Except the characters have become quite real to me now; they have their own idiosyncrasies and dispositions and quite frankly, walk around a novel like they own the place. It’s like they’re letting ME in.