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Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a writer.
I’m not sure when the bug bit me. But I remember finishing the third Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy novel and hastily scribbling my version of a fourth on a pad of blank paper. That was before I’d heard the term “fan fiction” — and before I knew there was a fourth book.
Since then, writing has been in and out of my life. At university I wrote a lot, most of it bad, pretentious fiction aping whichever more talented writer I had read that week. But then I got a mind-numbing job, accepted I would never be Stephen King or Terry Pratchett, and gave up.
Meeting my now-wife a few years ago reignited my writing passion. Because she believed in me. I had plans…but those plans came and went. I would be a journalist. No, a freelance writer. No, an author. No, an author, and a journalist, and a freelance writer, and hey, maybe an editor thrown in for good measure.
Safe to say those plans have not come to fruition. Sure, I have a Facebook page that defines me as an author. I have two short story collections available. A few articles dotted here and there online. But that’s it. The important thing, though, is that I’m still trying — and that’s amazing, because my desperation to become a writer almost made…
