I am a writer. There. I said it. It took me a while. Now that it’s out there it seems strange that I should have waited so long to claim the label.
What is it that I write? Fiction. And poetry, when the muse strikes.
Like an actor in a play, I step into someone else’s shoes, put on a mask and then I am ready. I used to find it very difficult to write candidly. So this is my new project: to delve into the past, burrow it for inspiration.
The past. The past is split between my parents’ happiness together – a time that is now so distant that sometimes I think I might have dreamt it – and their bellicose co-existence after their love had died a protracted, painful death. The past is my running away from it all.
I shall weave it with so many of my own imaginings until it becomes a new truth.