It’s been a long time since I prioritised writing. I go through phases. I’ll write, learn, grow, and then I’ll need money, or it will get hard – words feeling like sludge or subjects just too challenging – and I’ll put all of myself back into a paid job. My anxiety arises when I stay on that path. I feel years slipping past and the countless stories untold tugging at me. 

The storylines surprised me; my characters grew in ways I didn’t realise they would and what started off as a little over a page, became a novel.

About fifteen years ago I wrote my first novel. It started as a free-write (which is writing on a theme or just without conscious thought ,without stopping or self-editing). I’d written a lot of quite dark material up until then and, when my children were born, somehow writing horror seemed to be to tempt fate. I handed it over. Let it go and told God unless I felt a nudge I would trust that this was what I was supposed to do. I free-write as a form of journalling and one day did a free write on Matthew 5 in the Bible about ‘no-one hides a light’. I heard a talk on it, and it was the last thing I’d made notes on – that was all. As I started that day, I felt a shift. My free-writes kept taking me back to this story and Light-bearer (as it was originally known to me) began to grow. Characters formed. Backstories revealed themselves and politics, fears and hopes wove their way onto my pages. 

Back then I was writing with pencil on paper. I loved how it felt, the connectivity. 

The storylines surprised me; my characters grew in ways I didn’t realise they would and what started off as a little over a page, became a novel of over 135,000 words! Words formed as my two children wrestled at my feet or set up dens around me. I wrote in parks and discussed storylines with God as I walked to work. I talked about the story with friends and family bringing them into the backstories and gaining insights that I was too engrossed to see. 

In the final stretch, for the first time in my life, I quit my job to finish a book. I was a single parent; it was irresponsible and as I made the decision it felt like I was stood at the precipice of a cliff. Frozen with fear. And yet, it wasn’t a dark chasm, but the most stunning waterfall into deep aqua blue waters surrounded by lush greenery. A long way down and terrifying. 

But intrigue was the final push – what if? 

Beta readers (friends and family) proof-read and edited Blood Stained Crown (a new name that seemed to bring more drama). My awful spelling and grammar becoming apparent. I sent off to literary agents and publishers and never felt down heartened to get a response. I finally decided to self-publish about four years in. But I lacked the faith that I felt others held. I took my book offline and put it back and it went on in circles like that. The story was never ready. Never good enough. 

Seven years after that first one, I wrote a second novel, working in a local writing group. It took just 9 months to get my ‘zero’ draft (compared to 3 years for first draft of Blood Stained Crown). Writing in a community bought about new elements and the joy of writing flooded back. Once again, I was lost in storylines and characters that built within the every day. When I wasn’t writing, I wanted to be. 

I wrote in various forms, started getting more involved with journalism and science writing. I studied. As a mature student in my late 30s I prioritised the creative in me. 

A mental health crisis found writing a healing tool and a memoir was born. No less filled with unexpected characters but a cost to writing that didn’t eliminate the joy but rather honed the reason to write. It was at its core about my hearts cry. I realise that a core message in all my writing is justice and hope. 

And, here I am, fifteen years after starting Light-bearer or Blood Stained Crown for what feels like the final time, I am prioritising writing. Not the last time because I don’t think I’ll do it again, but because this time I can’t go back to old ways. I am a writer. It took me far too long to realise it. When I am not writing, my body grieves. So, I come back ready to invest. A writer first with a side job to pay for publishing costs. I know I am one of the fortunate ones.

I have a partner that heard a story, years ago, about Harper Lee’s friends giving a year’s salary to write her book – he’s always wanted to do this for me – this year he has. Not with a lump sum, but by taking over the bills for now. And it’s honestly the best gift in the world. 

Blood-stained Crown is in the middle of typesetting. And though I have edited this book countless times (and even at points grew bored of the story) I fell in love with it again. I rediscovered my characters and a reason to invest in it. I found a self-publishing facilitator that was just about affordable, and I have a launch date. I even have a cracking launch venue!

I refuse to believe the lies that try to creep in. I know that I am a writer. This is just the beginning. I am 45 and following my heart. If you get the opportunity to do the same for yourself, don’t let it pass you by.