As a child I adored reading. My parents would regularly come into my room in the early hours of the morning to tell me to put my book away and get some sleep, so I often read under the covers by torchlight. Sometimes my parents had to confiscate my books so I could get some sleep, so I smuggled spares under my pillow. J. R. R. Tolkien, Neil Gaiman, Bill Bryson, Garth Nix, Terry Pratchett, Tad Williams and so many others took me on adventures to strange and unusual lands from the safety and comfort of my own bedroom. I would pack piles of books for holidays, knowing I would finish one on the flight there, another on the flight back and that I’d need 1-2 per day. 

My parents were avid readers too and author’s names were spoken of like celebrities in our home: dad was hooked on Tom Holt and Terry Pratchett; mum loved Tolkien, Anne McCaffrey and Tad Williams. Their likes and dislikes rubbed off on me as we shared snippets with each other instead of watching TV on an evening. New books were devoured at an alarming rate and bookshelves filled our home. Long drives were accompanied by audio stories from Tony Bradman’s Dilly the Dinosaur to Rik Mayall’s Revolting Rhymes, Richmal Crompton’s Just William and Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. 

Every Christmas and birthday I would simply ask for “a big book and a surprise” as this was simply all I wanted – my mother always said I was the easiest child to please when it came to gifts. If that surprise was another big book then that was the sign of a great birthday or Christmas to me.

My childhood was good. I was happy and, as I look back, I was incredibly lucky to have younger years that I enjoyed. I had never really dealt with loss or hardship, other than the passing of my grandfather, as our little tribe was fairly small and isolated away from the rest of our family after my parents moved up North. 

Things changed when I went to university and my parents were taken ill. Firstly, my father had a harsh six-month battle with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma before passing away in his mid-fifties. The stress on the family was immense as my mother tried to keep his business afloat whilst working herself and, soon after, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her subsequent reconstructive surgeries did not go as planned and involved a series of damaging infections, invasive surgeries and errors that left her battered by the process.

Throughout the challenges we faced I was left with very little time to grieve. My father’s passing led into my mother’s illness and the collapse of my father’s business and I needed to be calm and stable in the background for her my mother and brother’s sake. At this time of great stress and sorrow I found solace in literature: I could retire to perfect worlds and seek joy, or I could seek out imperfect worlds within which I could comfort myself. Often, I found myself drawn to the books my parents enjoyed, particularly my father’s comprehensive Terry Pratchett collection, and I vividly remember reading passages and imagined sharing them with him as I had done so for years. Looking back on these times, I think of G. K. Chesterton’s quote: “Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”

I shall forever be thankful to authors and illustrators as they guided me through the times that challenged me the most: the sage advice from Granny Weatherwax and Death in Terry Pratchett’s Diskworld, Bill Bryson’s outlook on life and Tolkien’s wonderfully lifelike worlds were as much a part of my upbringing as my family was. As a teacher I have had the delightful opportunity to discover a wealth of children’s literature that I wish I had been able to see in my darkest moments: Lisa Thompson’s Owen and the Soldier; Sophie Anderson’s House with Chicken Legs; Maz Evan’s Who Let the Gods Out; Robert MacFarlane and Jackie Morris’ Lost Words; Ross MacKenzie’s Nowhere Emporium; Struan Murray’s Orphans of the Tide; Thomas Taylor’s Malamander; Jennifer Killick’s Crater Lake; Tine Mortier and Kaatje Vermeire’s Maia and What Matters and a multitude of other incredible stories and poems.

As I have started to bury myself further into the world of literature I am left with two thoughts:

• Why are authors and illustrators (particularly those that produce children’s books and those without celebrity endorsement) not celebrated more widely and treated like the superstars they are? Authors and illustrators can change lives, do they not deserve society’s utmost respect and admiration?
• Why are authors and illustrators so grossly underpaid when they pour their heart and soul into their work? Why do we allow big corporations to chaperone the profits into their own bulging accounts?

Because of the wonderful world of social networking, I have been able to speak to my heroes. I would describe myself as often being more of a thinker than a doer in the past and I have decided that standing by is simply not good enough: I want to support others in making large-scale positive change. It’s time that I dusted off my soap box, spoke up and supported authors and illustrators just like they supported me when I needed them the most.

So yes, I am a book nerd, loud and proud. I have started to realise that there is a fanatical book nerd army out there. Let’s stand up together and celebrate the awesome authors and illustrators out there!