I have to write. I just have to. Writing was always the delight of the school day, even when I could hardly scribble a few letters together on the page. It was the time to tell a story. The imagination would run wild. But it wasn’t just the content that was important. Weaving the words together to make the magic happen counted as well.
Grammar School killed it, though it at least taught me to write correctly and if I do break the rules, I do it for effect. Studying for a degree in French and German didn’t seem to help. But in retrospect I realise it provided rich experiences from which to draw stories.
Having children reawakened my intuitive side. And when they needed even more story than the books we had available could provide, I started to write.
We all need stories. It helps us to make sense of our worlds. I write mainly for young people and hope that what I show them with my words might give them a pattern against which to measure their experiences. I am a teacher, and I love being that too, but I think I can engage even better with my students when I write for them.
I constantly grow as a writer and get nearer and nearer to my goal of perfectly showing the world in all its beauty and diversity, though there is still a long journey ahead.
I was born to write. I can’t not write every day – it would be worse than not cleaning my teeth.