As a child, I would sit and write stories with a grey lead pencil, eraser and loose leaf paper. I was obsessed with little coloured folders that I’d file each story into. I’d write for hours. Teachers loved my stories and I won a competition at 13 for a short story. I dreamed of being a novelist before I left my teen years.
But somehow I stopped writing. I guess I grew up. Or allowed rejection, life, a total lack of self worth and busyness get in the way.
I stumbled across National Novel Writing Month this week and I’ve taken the plunge, signed up and cracked the 1,000 word mark (only 49,000 words to go!). I’m excited and nervous but enjoying the challenge. Will I write 50,000 by November 30? Probably not.
I’ve already won. A story has me entranced, a story that I have had whispering to me for a few years now. It consumes my thoughts. Imagination is coming alive again. I dream once again of a book with my name on it.
A challenge and a dream.