Ever since I won not one but two, Cadbury, ‘where does chocolate come from’ competitions in primary school, I was convinced, one day I would write a book. My parents encouraged me. My schoolteachers despaired of me. Flowery. Romantic. Not factual. Hey I loved weaving stories about anything and anyone.
So what happened to my grand ideas?
Life got in the way.
So more years later than I am prepared to disclose (hey a woman has to have some secrets) Here I am, an author. Not even that, a published author! Happy or what?
Married to my own hero (how cheesy is that) we live on the edge of a Scottish Forest.
I write on my lap top in my study, watching the birds on the bird table, the strange big black fluffy ‘ I’m pretending to be a bird’ cat, sitting on it and trying to convince the many birds he is invisible, occasionally seeing deer and red squirrel moving past. I am privileged.
As a non-closet romantic, sometime neurotic, and lover of words, I so enjoyed getting involved with my hero and heroines. I hope you do too.
