MOLLY CLARK

All I wanted to achieve on my trip to Italy was a golden glow with minimal skin damage, to consume an absurd quantity of pasta, pizza, bread and wine, and read as much as I could. Based on these goals alone, the holiday was a total success. I'd been saving The Pisces by Melissa Broder so it could be my poolside read. The title kind of put me off as I've only met one pisces that I've liked, however I did like the astrological reference. The pull of the ocean is palpable and present throughout. I also don't usually enjoy fantasy themes, but Broder writes in a way that is so hysterical, tender and witty that I almost believed the merman sex was real. Yes that's right I said merman sex. I couldn't quite believe it either, and some of the other erotic scenes were so viciously honest they brought colour to my cheeks and made me scoff out loud at times. It was funny and also tense watching Jake and friends have the same, sometimes more dramatic reaction as certain

It took me a while to crack Wuthering Heights: some classics are easier to read than others. I fell hard for Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë when I was 15, and though I appreciate both books are written by entirely different authors, I was still anticipating similarities. No. This book will rip your heart out and stamp on it. I love an anti-hero: a dark, rugged character that you shouldn't like, with a troubled past and a soft side you can't help but desire. There were moments where Heathcliff could've been that guy, but he never pauses once on his tyrannical path of destroying near enough everyone. Not one moment of contemplation or peace. It's a story of how love can break rather than create a person; it's unyielding power over mind, body and soul. "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same" Cathy pathetically utters somewhere towards the beginning. She's easily the worst out of the lot, she had everyone in her hands and infuriat

I strongly associate holidays with a perfect tranquil time to cram in as much reading as possible. Based on this, I usually take books I can't crack with the distractions of daily life abroad with me in the hope that the peace will allow me to finish them, usually thoroughly boring myself in the process. For example, I took Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh and On The Road by Jack Kerouac to the Algarve last year, both of which I'd tried to read previously. I did finish them, with much anger and sadness. I kind of did a similar thing this year on our trip to Barcelona. I took The End of the Affair in my tiny tiny hand luggage because it was thin. However, I didn't account for a 6 hour delay (I'd never flown RyanAir before, I won't make the same mistake twice) and I was scared to touch it in case I finished it before I'd even left Manchester. So I didn't. For the entire holiday. Here I am in the airport proving how short it is  AND THAT'S OKAY

For years I’ve thought I didn’t really have a ‘thing’-no specific hobby, no distinct style: I’ve dabbled into any creative area I fancied at the time, worn whatever I liked, never really feeling like anything defines me. It’s only recently that I’ve realised that my ‘thing’ is my love of books. The one constant in my life. Some of my most distinct memories growing up revolve around what I’ve written or read. I remember being mortified at one of my first parents’ evenings at about 5/6 years old when my mum, unbeknownst to me, took a story I’d written at home and brought it with her. I sat horrified as my teacher read my inner most creative thoughts. I now understand mum’s motive in proudly showing her my development, and a 6-year-old writing in continuous prose with pretty accurate spelling is quite impressive. However, always being a private person, this profound embarrassment will probably stick with me for the rest of my life. A fonder memory includes me, at about 8 years ol