Ever since my early teens I have loved to write – journals, poetry, short stories. I’ve always been part of a book club or a creative writing group. In my early twenties, a magazine even published one of my first articles and I remember being paid £75 – quite a lot of money back then! In that moment of triumph, I recall giving thought to becoming a ‘proper’ writer.
‘Wouldn’t that be good?’
But it was an idea immediately followed by more realistic thoughts.
‘I already have a job as a PA. I can’t give that up. How would I pay the bills, keep my flat?’
So that was that. The writing was no more than a hobby. Until my mid-forties, that is, when I felt the need to write about my father’s death. It was a time in which things just seemed to happen, a period of my life that felt almost fictional. The seed of a novel began to take hold and I didn't fight it. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I realised life’s just too-damn-short.
So I …