I don’t remember when I first began to read, but I do remember sitting on my grandfather’s lap, following along with his finger as he read newspapers or books, and suddenly a warm bright light emerged inside my head and I realised that all the squiggly bits in front of me were words, and that those words had so much power. I don’t remember when I first began to write, but I think it must have been shortly after my reading epiphany that I realised that this word followed by that word and then this word and then that began to make up tiny little stories, like tentative puffs of air in the cold winter’s night.
“I can tell stories too”, I thought.
I do know that I wrote my first story, a paltry five-sentence affair, when I was about five years old or so. Alas, it no longer survives, but I doubt it was very clever, or meant very much, except perhaps to my mum and my grandparents, who have always encouraged me to write, write, write, with all of my soul.
I write my soul. I am happiest when I am writing effortlessly. But as we all know there are good writing days, and bad writing days. The bad writing days are rather grim and melancholy, and fill me with endless frustration. I complain about them to the love. “It was a bad writing day”, and he will soothe and comfort. The good ones are celebrated. “I wrote!”, and he will hurrah and pet.
The dream, I suppose, is to be able to do this – string this word and that word and then this word – into complex sentences, and convey emotion, and introduce the world to people they’ve never met, in situations that nobody has ever imagined – for all time. To do this, and convert it into a meal on the table, or the rent, or a cup of tea in the good tea shops would mean the world to me. It is a dream shared by many, and realised by some. I may yet achieve this dream.
Thank you for following along with me on my journey. I’m so pleased you’re here to read my words. Pull up a chair and stay a while.