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.