I can vividly remember when the book bug bit (s'cuse the alliteration!). It was the day, as a small child, when I suddenly realised I could read - not just the odd word, but whole lines. Those lines quickly lead to paragraphs, which gradually lead to pages and, eventually, a whole book (Enid Blyton's The Faraway Tree, to be precise). The thrill of that day will stay with me forever, especially when I shared my news with my wonderful Grandad; the man who, with great patience, had taught me how to read. His smile was almost as broad as mine. From that day he used to refer to me as his 'little bookworm'.

It wasn't long before I was setting an alarm clock and tucking it under my pillow {I didn't want to disturb my feisty younger sister with whom I shared a room at the time) so I could wake early enough to squeeze in a bit of reading. And, yes, it was my Grandad who taught me how to tell the time and bought me my alarm clock!

Soon, the reading led to a desire to write and when I didn't have my nose stuck in a book I could be found scribbling away at my latest story (hopefully, they've improved a bit since then!). Ath the time, if anyone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my reply was that I wanted to be a writer. However, life got in the way and my childhood plans were shelved for several years.

Work, marriage, motherhood and property renovations came along, which left very little time to indulge in my first love of writing. But, one day, the urge got the better of me - prompted by the idea of a story that wouldn't leave me alone - and I sat down at my laptop and wrote away. I kept my writing secret for months and months until one evening I fessed-up to my husband- I think Prosecco may have been involved! - who informed me that he'd guessed I'd been writing, but thought I was compiling a history of our (very) old house - I'd been doing a lot of research into it and had accumulated bundles of information! Anyway, after coming clean, I let him read the first chapter of my novel while I hid away in a different room. Mr S is nothing, if not honest, and I was bracing myself for him to tell me my writing was rubbish (or worse!). You could've knocked me over with a feather when he came back into the room with a smile on his face and told me he liked it!

That day gave me the confidence to carry on. Though, it didn't stop me from having months of self-doubt where I didn't touch my writing for months. Four and a half years and several drafts later, my first novel was finished and I took the decision to self-publish. Which is exciting and scary in equal measures!

Thank you for dropping by.

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