I first started writing in earnest in 2002. That first novel I wrote as my small son had his afternoon nap will never see the light of day, but it was an excellent training ground. Since then I’ve written a collection of short stories that was transformed into a young adult novella, a novel set in Cambodia and now a self-help title. A mixed bag. Years of redrafting.
A lot of it has been fun, exciting, interesting, cathartic, healing. But it’s also been infuriating, annoying, challenging and bloody hard work.
Looking back I can see how I have grown in my craft. I now describe myself as a writer without even an inward squirm. I understand the fear of a blank page as well as the thrill. I have developed a thick skin strong enough to withstand rejection and the toughest edit. I’ve met other wonderful writers and enjoy their support and advice. I’ve felt the highs of grand self-delusion and the pits of feeling “everything I write is crap.”
I’ve earned my writing stripes.
And I am more determined than ever to never, ever, ever, stop.

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