It only took 26 years.
26 years since the event that inspired me to write an avenging angel themed story.
And yet I don’t consider myself a procrastinator.
Before we get into this let me just throw out there that my thought processes are a little….strange (in my defense, never have I ever claimed to be sane).
I have always preferred the imaginary world to the real one. As a child I would read and daydream endlessly. When I wasn’t reading a story, I was creating one. My very first manuscript was entitled “The Kindness Elves.” I have no recollection of what they actually did but I do remember naming them after 90’s Body Shop scents - I mean who didn’t love a little dewberry perfume oil right?
In hindsight I suppose I found story building therapeutic. In moments of fear, in moments of excitement, in moments of boredom, I would create a narrative to fit whatever scenario I was in. Walking my dog through the woods created the perfect inspiration for a horror story, a power cut for a supernatural tale, and a close call paved the way for a superhero plot.
As a member of the generation who spent summer breaks free from the watchful eye of guardians I had plenty of opportunities to indulge in an absolute freedom that today's children will likely never experience, for the betterment of my imagination, but not so much for my safety.
My school holidays were spent with other neighborhood kids in the local woods. We built dens, climbed trees, and created imaginary worlds. Injuries were treated with stream water and leaves, and adults had no idea where or how we spent our time.
If you ducked home for food before sunset it was a rarity. Woe betide if you returned home multiple times, you were in real danger of being kept inside for the remainder of the day. Back doors had a strict limit in the 1990’s, if they opened more than twice in a ten-hour period parents got pissed!
But like most people, life got in the way and my focus shifted to what I had to do rather than what I wanted to do. I didn’t study literature and writing at college, opting for what I considered a more practical degree in nursing instead. That alone made me feel like I lacked the necessary qualifications to ever pursue a career in writing.
I became a single mother at twenty and time spent daydreaming became a luxury outside of my budget. Strangely, what seemed like the driving force against my story building whims was the one thing that actually brought them back to me, so thank you to my first born for that.
When my now almost 28-year-old was around 2 years old he uncharacteristically decided to basically be, well, a little sod.
Returning from a Saturday morning shopping trip, I parked my little Citroen AX by the curb in front of my house and proceeded to wrangle my child out of his car seat. I did, as I had countless times before, and stood him next to me on the sidewalk while I locked my car door. Yes, those were the days before an electric key fob did all the hard work for you.
My usually angelic toddler decided that would be a great time for a game of catch me if you can. And what better direction to run in than behind the car and into the road?
As I caught a glimpse of his tiny form disappearing behind said vehicle, I heard the familiar roar of an approaching car travelling at great speed. With a bloodcurdling scream (that scared the crap out of my poor mother who was at that time unlocking the front door of our house) I gave chase.
I didn’t see the approaching car. I didn’t have time to stop and look. I dropped everything and ran, catching up with my now petrified child in the middle of the road. We were both fine, sort of. I don’t think the speeding car even passed us, turning down a side street instead, but the possibility of tragedy was enough. That night my dreams chronicled a very different ending to the day's occurrence, one in which my child had survived but I had not.
Fast forward 25 years and a routine mammogram identified a growth. Subsequent symptoms during my wait for a biopsy had me convinced that the upcoming holiday season would be my last.
Writing a book had been on my bucket list forever. But it was the fear that I had run out of time for so many things, including that, that gave me the kick I needed. In early January, after thankfully receiving the all clear, I sat down and wrote out the foreword for my first novel. Four months later the first draft was done.
Breathing a huge sigh of relief that the most challenging part was done, I harassed family and friends for feedback, and what I got was surprisingly positive (can you believe I actually thought the hardest part was out of the way!).
This was the point my learning journey really began.
Navigating one's way through the publishing process is not for the weak hearted. I’ve been knocked down more times than I care to remember, but if I’m nothing else I’m stubborn as hell, or stupid enough to get up and keep going every time.
I received my first publishing contract at the beginning of 2025 and thankfully have had the pleasure of working with an amazing editor who God love her, has had to teach me everything!
My hopes for this blog are that along with continuing to learn and grow, I might be able to help others who are also struggling to navigate through a similar uncharted territory.
If there’s something that shouldn’t be done, I can pretty much guarantee I’ve done it already, and probably redone it a couple of times because apparently I’m not a quick learner.