One year on.

It’s been just over a year since I began writing my debut novel and when I started, I had no idea that twelve months later I’d have three books published, another written and waiting to publish and be well into writing a fifth.

It’s funny how things happen isn’t it?  Your life is pootling along very much as it always does and then, kerpow, life suddenly races off at a tangent and you hardly have time to draw breath.  It’s shit like that which convinces me that some sort of predestination is taking place.  I love it when this happens, the spontaneity of it excites me.

I now feel like a writer and I feel comfortable describing myself as a writer when people ask.  I’ve never felt that before, although I’ve wanted to write since I was a kid.  I remember my Aunt boasting when she wrote her first romance story and got it published and I was envious of her achievement.  Although I self publish, there’s no stigma about being an indie now so I don’t have to feel my achievement is any lesser than hers.

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