At first I imagined I'd write detective novels, because I loved 'Nancy Drew.'
I was obsessed with Nancy Drew growing up - I couldn't get enough.
Mystery fiction was considered a stepchild of literature.
How different from the cosy world of Rüya's detective novels, where authors never vexed a hero with more signs than he needed.
Mark Haddon's 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time' was published while I was trying to work out how to write 'Elizabeth Is Missing,' and reading the story of that impaired amateur detective gave me the licence I needed to attempt one of my own.
I feel I could be walking down the street, and if somebody talked to me, I could just slot into 'Miss Marple' and know how she would react.
I thought I was the wrong shape: that Miss Marple would be much fluffier than me, much more wearing shawls and things. But I was persuaded, and now, well - I can only do it my way.
Anyone can write a detective story about a detective who fails, for Pete's sake. That's pretty unambitious.
I'd always wanted to write crime fiction. I loved Nancy Drew.
I decided to read something I normally hate: a cosy mystery. You know one of those mysteries where everything is tidily wrapped up at the end and everyone lives happily ever after? An Agatha Christie kind of mystery. They are so not my thing. But then someone was raving about Barbara Neely's Blanche White books and they sounded interesting.
There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.
I feel like an old lady; my hero is Miss Marple.
