Once upon a time, when I was normal...


Last Wednesday, standing in the children's section of Foyles, I nearly started crying. Last year, this would not have happened. But since January – when I finally started to take myself seriously as a writer – I have found myself turning into the kind of person I used to scoff at on the X-factor. You know, the girl who stares at the camera and says, "This is all I've wanted, my whole life. I just can't imagine doing anything else..." Yeah, that's me. Except replace singing with books.

I used to be normal. I used to just go to work, come home, walk the dog, binge on Netflix, and eat too much Thai food. Now, I still do all of that, but the whole time, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, my inside voice is writing. And I can't get enough of it. I love it. When I'm writing, hours can fly by unnoticed. It could be raining, snowing, or the start of a Zombie apocalypse outside my window... but I wouldn't notice. I have stories and voices zooming around in my brain – all the time. So many that there simply aren't enough hours in the day to attend to them all. And the more I write, the more I love it. The stories grow, they multiply, and so does my absolute burning desire to do nothing but write.

So, it's not because of the hunt for fame and fortune that I covet writing success. It's purely because it would allow me to do something I love as a job. And isn't that what we all secretly crave?

Old Me thought that it was okay to be 'content' with the thing you spend the majority of your life doing. And, don't get me wrong, my day-job is more than okay - I'm still surrounded by books, and I get to exercise my creative muscles every now and then. But since standing up and saying to the world, "I am a writer. I tell stories," I have realised that this is the thing I must aim for. This is my goal. This is my passion. If I never reach the stage where I can be a full time writer, that's fine. Because at least I'll have tried.


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