I can’t sketch. I can’t paint or sculpt. I don’t consider myself creative, I definitely fell into the Maths and Science rather than Arts boxes at school, but I love to write.

Whether it’s to tell a story, to update a friend on the ridiculousness of my life, or to complete the business aspects of a technical requirements document; I adore the process of taking something from inside my head and putting it down on paper. It isn’t immediate, I tend to muse, often subconsciously, the concept flirting with my minds eye whilst I carry on otherwise, for many hours, days or even weeks before it is time for me to make a start; and when I do I may not myself know quite what I am going to say, but I know I’m ready to pick up the metaphorical pen.

I remember writing when I was ten or twelve; I wrote a whole series of short stories about an elf called Slippery who found himself in all sorts of pickles, he never made the right choice at first, but learned his lesson in the end. Magic Faraway Tree inspiration here. Then I wrote a novel, Narnia esque, which I printed, bound and at my Grandma’s insistence gave to a couple of her friends to read and review; he had run a school abroad and she was a headmistress. I received their feedback on a post it note posted back on the front of my novel, I recall it was appropriately encouraging for a girl of twelve who had written about giants and secret doors in oak trees. I hope I have the book and the note in storage somewhere for posterity.

There were a half dozen others ideas started and abandoned on floppy discs, including one which haunts me to this day; it was Matrix style, and I can still see the world paralleling the one I am in. Then there was a play at school about crossed telephone lines, full of appalling puns (address? a dress? you get the gist), but we acted it out at end of year and the audience laughed when they were supposed to.

I didn’t write again until my Philosophy degree, which I loved, but will admit I didn’t excel at. Tumbling into investment banking didn’t give me much excuse to pick up a pen to write more than trade details on a blotter, until I found myself involved with Change. As an SME, then in Change myself, and then later on in a department responsible for completing RFPs; these documents can be 100 pages in length and have to be perfect; appealing to both my love of writing also pristine punctuation and alignment.

During my time in the City I was known to compose many a TripAdvisor review, even received the occasional glass of wine for my effort, and for years now I’ve emailed my dreams to myself. It has been suggested that maybe a newspaper would serialise them, I’ve never dared to ask; a decade ago I sent a draft book to a publisher. The feedback, “Your story is very engaging and […] fascinating, however, ….” didn’t mark me as completely defeated, just highlighted that the publishing world is very competitive, and I’ve held off from sending it again, or indeed anything else out into the world. This blog aside.

I started another book three years ago, and bought research materials for two more over the most recent twelve months; but they are mere whims and personal distraction, no pen will be put to paper until I’ve done all the background research, reason enough for me to have written nothing as yet.

However, a couple of weeks ago I started writing a novel; in the first week I wrote 38,000 words. It isn’t one of the books I’ve been musing and researching, it came to me as I woke one Tuesday, I was inspired and had to do more than just email the basic premise to myself. I had to write again. I’ve since started to build out the characters and construct the world around them, and I feel like it’s taking on a life of it’s own, something to be proud of.

Maybe.