Lying in my cosy bed on a cold winter’s night, a hot water bottle positioned perfectly at my chest, I listen spellbound to the tales of monsters, knights and enchanted forests.
When I was young, my Grandfather would always tell me bed time stories. He had such a broad imagination and would often make them up on the spot. I was too young to read or write, but my imagination was in full effect and I had already developed a love for stories and realised the endless possibilities of the imagination.
I was a little bit older and started wondering about putting pen to paper to create my own story. My first idea, which was understandably adolescent, was: ARMY MEN!! They were going to build forts and chase the enemy around the jungle; I would have a hero of the story and would need to create a beautiful lady character to enhance the hero’s credibility. Perfect. The excitement struck me like a lightning bolt and I decided then and there, I was going to write a book. I even drew a couple of really bad illustrations with a box of 64 Crayola crayons. I realised from this creative attempt that any ability I may have, was clearly in writing and definitely not in drawing.