I have always wanted to be an author. I can remember being at first school at around age 7 and having a set of books that had been written and illustrated by children. I have no idea what they were called but I still have a very vivid picture of one of the characters. It was a pink monster that looked similar to a fox. I loved the books and, in particular, the fact that everbody could see that they were created by children. So I used to tell my classmates that I had written them. Drawn them too. I am sure that they would have pointed out that my name was not on the cover but I would like to think that I had a suitable excuse such as a pen name. I can still conjure that feeling of pride pretending that the book in my hand was created by me.
4 years later at age 11 I was handed an opportunity to write. My school was taking part in a media week which saw us commentate on football matches amongst other things but the stand out for me was being given the task of writing a book for a younger audience. One of our teachers was a published author and sent some of our books away to her publisher. I once again drifted into fantasy land telling my classmates that I was going to go and see the books being printed etc but, alas, the publisher declined.
However, the letter itself gave me enough of a spark that it has always been in the back of mind for the past 24 years. As you will see, the publisher names my book in person. That to me was, and is, a glimmer of hope. It is something that, although tiny, has kept me going over the years that one day I will make it.
Here’s the book, including the publisher’s letter.