I think us creative types are really just cadging a lift on a childhood dream. And I write 'just' as though that's easy, when in the real adult world, it can be the hardest, toughest, most embarrassing and emotionally draining choice imaginable.
The truth is, when I was a child, I entered poetry into competitions. I'd show stories to anyone who'd stand still long enough to read them. If you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, invariably it would be a writer. And I'd say it like it was going to happen. Like, of course it was going to happen.
After reading a mortifyingly romantic piece of creative writing, set in Egypt and tracing an archaeologist as she pilgrimaged through a distant sandy desert, I vividly remember my Year 5 teacher pronouncing that I would be a Mills and Boon writer one day. I had no idea what Mills and Boon books were, but I clung onto that label so fiercely, I could have worn it like a placard round my neck.
And then somewhere along the way, writing became a dirty secret. I would no longer lie outstretched upon the carpet on a Sunday morning, scribbling my way through notepad after notepad, dismissing them carelessly when full for any eyes to find them. Instead, writing was furtive, stolen between moments of more important things, and tapped into a keyboard that could be trusted to keep quiet, in password-protected private folders.
And then it stopped altogether, when those more important things evolved from moments into months. I'd sometimes stumble across one of those folders and scour through, half derisive but half still addicted, still clinging to the idea that I could have been something, could have done something. On occasion I would start writing again, over the years, an idea taking shape with flurried fingers across letters, forming perhaps twenty, perhaps fifty new beginnings.
And once I had my children, a couple of those ideas got further than the beginning. None to the end, though I would have claimed they were finished, but I never invested in them. I never invested in me.
I was busy living an adult life, you see. I went to university and followed my head into Marketing, and got married, and worked, and bought houses and had children. And I lived the life that happened, and it was full of so many wonderful things and places and people.
So wonderful that I have slowly, gradually, cheered on by my relentlessly supportive husband (and Lord knows I test him and his wonderfulness every day), become strong enough to reclaim that dream. It isn't easy, like I said, these childhood dreams are so pure and vulnerable and vivid that they sting the back of your throat, as sharp as lemon juice. They are unbearably soft and fragile, that you feel the urge to hide them, tuck them away, keep them somewhere dark inside that strong, hard adult shell, the one that's weathered all the tough knocks and can keep those little, simple dreams safe - and unseen.
It's only now, championed by my tireless little entourage of husband and children - who invigorate and exhaust me in almost equal measure - that I can be strong enough to be vulnerable. It's a big ask, to step beyond your comfort zone. And, for me, it's only now that my comfort zone is established and secure that I can take that step.
It's only now, championed by my tireless little entourage of husband and children - who embolden and exhaust me in almost equal measure - that I can be strong enough to be vulnerable. It's a big ask, to step beyond your comfort zone. And, for me, it's only now that my comfort zone is established that I can take that step. Perhaps because I know that, if I fall, they'll catch me and, if I learn to fly, they will too. Their bravery is contagious.
So come spread wings with me, and if you're writing - let's find our way together. It's always nice to have a hand to hold when you take the leap.
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