My Writing Story

My writing journey began when I was at school. My English language lessons, where we began to learn how to describe a mood or set a scene, ignited a tiny flame inside me, which would quietly sit within me for many years. In my early thirties, a series of events happened. We relocated to the Forest of Dean, a beautiful area where many creatives reside. An area which inspires and offers varying beauty, regardless of the season. It was a move, both me and my husband often discuss and agree, was the best decision we ever made.

Shortly after a stressful house move, my parents arrived to live this idyllic dream, at our new property, in their annex. We had high hopes and excitedly planned our new shared future. However, within weeks of moving, my mum became gravely ill, and after a six-week struggle, passed away during the Christmas of 2009. This was a devastating blow. Our plans and dreams of our new life in the countryside with her, were over.

We were devastated. I felt as if my life had been shaken up like a snow globe, and I did not know which way to turn, or how to forge forwards. At this point, something in me reached for a pen and paper. Words and sentences appeared, they did not always make sense, or serve any purpose. It was my brain purging the grief, the despair. It was a valve which, when opened, afforded me some relief and outlet for the mounting and conflicting feelings, which threatened to drown me.

Out of those early days, in the aftermath of losing my mum, I created two books - a world and situation similar to my own. Looking back, I was creating resolution for the sorry place I was in mentally, in order to make sense and organise my thoughts. I shared these books on Amazon, and I have some regrets about this, because my writing was raw, and required much development and practice, so I shouldn’t have ‘put it out there'. However, I also know that it brought comfort to some people, and that means the world to me.

I then shelved my writing again, removed the books from the world. I still jotted down feelings and wrote poems but left the writing, and associated social media, behind. But the thing with writing, is that if you have it in you, you can only leave it alone for so long, before it finds you again. That is what happened to me. I now look at my two earlier shared books, as a gift from my mum, because if I hadn’t written them, I would not be where I am now. They were my lessons, and they helped me evolve my techniques and methods.

Now, I am still very much learning my art, and with being self-published comes a whole other world of promotion and formatting. I have made errors along the way, some I cannot change but I know potentially effects my sales, which is frustrating. I have much to learn on that front and am putting a positive spin on this, to make it more palatable – it is always good to learn new skills and push yourself out of your comfort zone. (But I would rather have someone to help me with this if I am honest!)

As I prepare to launch my third, current book, I am equally nervous and excited. I am thankful for those who encourage me, support me and champion me, because when someone believes in you, it jolts the self-belief into action, because sharing words is scary. Putting yourself out there, for people to criticise something that you have spent months working on, is hard. Equally, when a reader contacts you, to feed back that your book felt like a holiday from reality, or that they could not put it down, induces the most enormous smile and swell of pride. It blows my mind that my words can affect another to that extent.

A reminder to us all, that the power of words, what you write or say to another, can impact in both positive and negative ways. So, we must choose carefully those which we want to share.

Advice I often give to anyone struggling, or going through a hard time, is to buy a new notebook and pen, and start writing. The words do not have to make sense. It does not have to be creative. It becomes an outlet, a way of emptying those tangled thoughts, sorting through the muddles, sifting out the dark. You never have to read it back, or share it, it becomes storage for thoughts which may otherwise weigh you down. I have continued to use writing through subsequent losses, and it remains above everything else, my own form of therapy.