I have been writing since I could put a pen to paper and achieve a sentence: poetry in moments of madness, fiction born of reality, articles and commentaries on current events, diaries, tales for those who can’t yet tell the time, jokes and cartoons.
Alas, all my outpourings would meet a sad end somewhere at the back of the wardrobe, in a shoebox under the bed, in a ‘Scribblings‘ folder of an extinguished laptop, on a blog tempestuously deleted or in a ‘Return to Sender‘ tray of a literary agent.
As there is no writer without a reader, I have now decided to pull my writings out of oblivion, dust them off and throw them to the wolves of public scrutiny. Someone may read them, someone else may even enjoy them.
Whatever the disappointments or successes of this undertaking, I shall not stop writing. I can’t.
It goes back to my earliest conscious thought. When I was about seven-eight years old I discovered all I wanted to be was a writer. I wrote my first book when I was 10. It was about a bunch of eccentrics landing on a planet inhabited by dinosaurs. I illustrated it referring to encyclopaedia to ensure accuracy and maintain professional credibility. The only person who read it was my brother. He found it in the bottom drawer of my desk and thought I had copied it from a “proper” book. It was the best review I have ever had!
Since then, I have travelled the world and lived in many exotic places (though without a trace of dinosaurs). I have worn many different hats and tried my best to become a respectable member of society, turning my hand to being a lawyer, a teacher and a mother with only a modicum of success in each of those departments.
The truth of the matter is that I am still a child whose heart is set on being a writer. I don’t like wearing hats. My fingers are stained with ink.