I wish I had one of those inspiring stories, where I came to writing later in life but now it’s my passion… because those people always have a wealth of life experience to bring to the table and no horrific angsty stories, which were written in a 101 Dalmatians notebook (it was pink, there were spots on the pages).

I can’t even tell you that there was life events, which have inspired me to tell my story/ a story because my selfish parents spent too much time loving me and ruined any hope I had of being a tortured artist by giving me a good childhood.

As much as I wish I had some amazing, awe inspiring reason for pursuing the dream of being an author… I write because I always have done. I have always written stories, many of which were inflicted on my poor family. I even wrote a series of short stories from the perspective of our pet’s points of view (we had cats, a dog and a couple guinea pigs, so plenty of material).

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I write because I think up stories all the time. I write because when I see people in crowds, I wonder about their stories and my mind boggles at the infinite world each of us lives in.

I want to write because I’ve seen time and time again, what literature can do for people. From stories that are a major part of historical revolutions, to petrol station £1 romance fluff. At every end of the scale, the stories meant something to someone and spoke to something within them. If I can just make one person feel that way, all the extra time and effort will have been worth it.

So, throw every little bit of imposter syndrome out the window and write! Write and hope it reaches out and grabs someone by their soul and speaks to them in some way, or fills their day with just a smidgen of happiness.

Just get on with it.