136. Patrick Gale

Or, I should say, the work of Patrick Gale. I know Patrick a little bit, and he's a good man, but I don't love him.

I've read (pause for mental strobing) all the fiction Patrick has published, bar his recent book of stories. His two best, I think, are Rough Music and Notes from an Exhibition. I also have a soft spot for The Facts of Life.

But the point really, selfishly, is this: I'm aiming for Patrick. To be as good as he is. Which is really very good, but accessible and entertaining. There is a narrow band of fiction which falls somewhere between chick lit (so patronising) and literary fiction (so arrogant). Herself calls it 'chick literature'. Into this happy band fall such writers as Joanna Trollope, Mary Wesley, Elinor Lipman, Maggie O'Farrell and, arguably, writers like Kate Atkinson and even Patrick O'Brian. Perhaps provocatively, I would include Jane Austen and Charles Dickens too. And Patrick. And, one day, ME! Herself sometimes refers to 'Patricia Gale'. She's so funny.

We won't have the 'what qualifies as 'literary fiction' argument here, because if you're a literary fiction reader you'll already be sniffing at the list above, and if you're not I'd be preaching to the converted. Or you might be like my beautiful, brilliant Parent, who has read everything but is actually happiest watching Foyle's War.

Patrick's books are easy to read, but that doesn't mean your brain isn't working. He paints characters that are recognizable and yet uniquely themselves. He writes about families, love affairs and life. He has a light touch. These are books that you read on your way to work, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the sun. But, strangely, they are also books that you return to, like an iconoclastic friend - both comforting and new.

His books give me pleasure as a reader, and inspiration as a writer. Which is why I love them.