One of my first holidays away from home was camping in a muddy field outside the Hay-on-Wye book festival, sharing a few WKDs with friends, while planning which of our favourite authors were going to sign our precious books. I religiously kept up a Goodreads account. I was a member of the invitation-only Carnegie book group a small group of teenagers across all year groups devouring the Carnegie Medal shortlist, debating which book should win. I was the kid who spent more time in the library than out of it, befriending the school librarians.
Then, I wasn’t just a reader: I was the Reader. I brought two along just in case I read the first gargantuan book in a day. Weighed down by a satchel, heavy with tomes from fantasy writer George R.R.
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