I recall reading my first Ruth Rendell. Nonchalant, I opened it (real paper of course with tidy marching print; no Kindles back then) and scanned a line or two. Then I looked up and it was a day later and I'd finished the book and I needed a bath and my boyfriend thought I'd chucked him. The story was so fine tuned, with an eerie realism that wasn't realistic whatsoever, and written with a plainness that somehow hid a legion of secrets ... oh look, I could eulogise Ruth Rendell's writing for ever, so suffice to say I was a fan.
I checked the Other titles by section and gasped. It was a list as long as my arm. (Never liked that metaphor - arms aren't that long, are they?) A smorgasbord of Rendell was laid out in front of me. I set about devouring them, noticing happily that the great lady also wrote longer, meatier novels under the name Barbara Vine.