I think it must have been 1992. I was 18 years old and had a job childminding for a neighbour’s kids that summer. But Iain Banks was appearing at the Book Festival….So I came up with some hard to believe ruse, and ditched the kids that day, sneaking up to Charlotte Square praying I didn’t bump into my neighbours. I told Iain about my subterfuge as he signed his book for me, exaggerating no doubt.
‘Making up stories like that, you should be a writer!’ he told me.
Well I do write, and I cherish that memory of being encouraged by such a great storyteller to make up stories and to be inspired by everyday experiences.