In the summer of 2009, I fell in love with the English language and American politics at the same time. I have Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing to thank for that. As a child and pre-teen, I read voraciously and wrote prolifically, but when we moved to England and my mother tongue, French, began to rust, so did my love of language. Sorkin convinced me that English could be elegant. He also showed me how exciting – how glamorous, how romantic – politics could be. Or could, at least, appear.
So it’s no surprise that I love reading about campaigns. YA, romance, chick lit, non-fiction: you name it, I’ll read it. I love the high stakes, the idealism or the cynicism of the characters, and their high energy. I love the sense of danger, too: the sleep-deprived, ambition-fuelled, approval-craving characters always seem to be a hair’s breadth away from catastrophic mistakes. And those mistakes can spell disaster not only for their own careers but, in their views, for the country, which may end up voting for the “wrong” person as a result of their missteps.