I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember.
It started with really short stories at the age of 5 about my rabbit cuddly toy to English homework that allowed me to be creative (my favourite kind). As I grew up and as technology did too, I started (and deleted) blogs, and wrote for small online publications.
By day, I’m known as “the one with the good English”, and I get paid to write as I lead on creative content projects. By night, I’m typing away on a blog that I’m finally happy with. The Colloquial Alternative, you’re reading it. There are dozens of half-written drafts waiting to be finished, and published. I have too much to say, and not enough time to finish it all.
That brings me to now, a conversation that I had with a colleague a few days ago. On our usual routine lunch time work, we debriefed each other on what we’d been working on that day. Both of us were armed with new, exciting projects; hers was graphic design related, and mine was all about being creative with words. As we neared the office ready to knuckle down for the afternoon, she said it: “you should write a book”.
As I drove home that evening, I thought about those words. Writing a book has always been on some sort of bucket list of mine, but I’ve always been held back by a) how difficult it is to get published and b) the very thought of people I know reading what I write makes me want to hide in a dark room. But if others can do it, what’s stopping me? And with that I decided: I’m going to self-publish a book.
I’m excited, you know? Welcome to the very start of my journey.