Private: Why write?

We are all shaped by our childhood experiences. It is the path we choose that will make the difference.

As a small child my grandfather told me stories. They weren’t memorable, but he made them up, and I liked listening to him. No matter how bad the stories were, I felt oddly comforted by them.

When I was around seven or eight, our form teacher encouraged us to go home and write a poem. I confess laziness stepped in, I preferred to read, so I could vanish into the other universe of make believe. The only book I possessed at the time was Enid Blyton’s, so I stole a verse from her, and passed it off as my own.

Incredibly, my teacher believed it was mine. He was lovely, sweet, and maybe, dare I say, a little gullible. But when he showed it to the Head, and they agreed I should finish the poem off… Well! I ask you. Like I would memorise the whole lot!

Silly me.

Clearly my childish efforts proved I wasn’t anywhere near author status at all, but I had learnt a valuable lesson. I now wanted to write. Something. Anything, so long as it was mine…

So why write? The beautiful way to answer that question would be: Writing is a source of magic. I write because it gives the buggers dancing around in my head a chance to get out.

Now someone wants to publish my book. I am holding my breath. I still need the proverbial pinch and wait to see what happens next.

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