Barnard Castle writer Emma Guyll describes the people and places and childhood influences that inspired her to put pen to paper.

ONE of my earliest memories is of my father, who is a quiet, deeply intelligent and introspective man, reading to me every evening. It was always children’s classics such as Tom Sawyer or Black Beauty, which I loved. I remember him reading Treasure Island and him doing the voice of Long John Silver, which was a great source of amusement.

My mother was always very creative and quite bohemian and read work from the Bloomsbury set avidly.

I found spelling difficult and I remember her sitting with me for hours until I got all my spellings correct.

As reward, she would thread sunflower seeds with us and dye them or make collages.

My grandmother was very loving and I grew up surrounded by a gaggle of jolly aunts and uncles who crowded the small bungalow where she lived in East Rainton, near Sunderland.

My grandfather was a miner, who died before I was born.

He kept a bookcase with books full of heroes, such as Scott of the Antarctic, which I was allowed to look at, with great reverence.

At primary school I had the privilege of being taught by a brilliant English teacher and had my first story published in the school magazine.

After that I went to Hummersknott, which I loved. It was very progressive and free-thinking in the Seventies and fostered in us a sense of independence and fairness.

I went on to higher education, where I developed my love of literature and poetry. Favourites were Dylan Thomas, TS Eliot and Keats.

I later moved to Hampshire working as a primary teacher. This was a complete contrast to the North-East.

In comparison to the bleak Northern hills and stark barns, there were chocolate box cottages nestled snugly behind beautiful cottage gardens.

I’ve always been influenced by landscapes and how they impact on our inner lives.

After teaching for several years, I contracted chronic fatigue syndrome and suffered a breakdown. At the same time I lost some very close friends and relatives within a short space of time and this is when I began to write poetry. I suppose it was cathartic in a way, but it was also written with the intention of helping others through difficult times in their lives.

I remember when Auntie Joan, who ran The Red Alligator at South Church, near Bishop Auckland, died.

Mum and I were absolutely distraught and as we were sorting through her effects a letter from my grandfather tumbled out. On it was written a poem. It was like a message from Heaven.

It’s funny, but I’ve found that during the darkest and saddest times in our lives, someone always seems to come along and this is why I wrote my poem, Friend, which is included in my new collection, Speech Bubbles.

My novel Pink Blancmange is also meant as a comfort. Some of it is based on experience and some of it stories I’ve heard. All of the characters are on a journey, and the book describes the choices they make and how these influence the outcomes of situations, how people evolve, change and mature and how circumstances can often influence how a person behaves. It’s partly based in Hampshire and also in the North- East.

I’m quite a spiritual person, which is why I’ve included fairies in the book. Folklore around the Teesdale area speaks of a white lady, who looks after everyone and how the fairy folk have helped lost farmers find their way home.

A lot of the book is based on what I call “real love”, which is a completely spiritual experience and most of the characters are helped through their hours of need by this powerful emotion from which comes the phrase ‘Love conquers all’.

• Speech Bubbles and Pink Blancmange by Emma Guyll (both Austin and Macauley, £7.99) • Emma Guyll is reading from her books at The Georgian Theatre Royal, Richmond tonight and signing copies at Waterstone’s in Darlington on Saturday.

This poem by Emma was a runner-up in The National Poetry Competition.
BENCH
I wonder who lay on the park bench today.
A farmer who smelt of new-mown hay,
Or a dad and his kids,
All smiling, just fine.
Or maybe a rock star
Smelling of wine?
Was it a matriarch
Sweet smell of scones?
Or a baker discarding
His old currant buns
To the ducks
In a quack and a flap and a quiver
Or the swans gliding regently
Crossing the river?
I wonder who’ll lie on the park bench
To morrow
A banker
Or someone Who begs, steals and borrows?