I admitted something today without even realising it, just sitting around the lunch table at work chatting.
I still enjoy creative writing.
Now, I’m not sure how we got to that point, but somebody said something about giving up work for a year to do something (I do listen to my colleagues…honest) and I said out loud:
“If I were to win enough money to quit work for a year, I’d write a book.”
Now, there is the problem right there.
I never even thought about pursuing a career in creative writing past the age of twelve because I WOULD NEVER MAKE ANY MONEY (and here is me thinking I was an optimist back then.)
So I went into journalism, a “proper writing career” but then by the end of my course decided that communications was a bit more positive than being chased down the street and called a vulture (story for another blog.)
So here I am, working in one of the fastest growing and most exciting (bias) sports around; cycling.
I get to tell some of the most inspirational stories, stories of true grit and determination. Alongside everything else that comes under communications and marketing in a modern day business…
I used to write all the time as a kid, make up stories (on paper, I was generally good and didn’t tell fibs!) I’d write them in notebooks, then when I graduated onto my Dad’s old laptop, I’d type them up.
Then I stopped. I must have decided that since I’d not published a book by the age of thirteen then it was never going to happen for me (or more realistically, maybe exams, friends, boys and going out became more interesting?)
I was constantly told growing up that I could be whatever I wanted to be, I just had to put my mind to it. So I definitely can’t pin the reason I stopped creatively writing on my parents or teachers. It was just me.
I now wistfully occasionally think that when I’m on maternity leave one day, I’ll write a book then. It is definitely work that gets in the way.
(I can hear all you mothers out there snorting with laughter just now – like I’ll have anytime to do that!)
So although it’s good to know that my dream of seeing my name on the front cover of a book in Waterstones isn’t gone and forgotten like the Barbie dolls we used to play with, it’s sad to know that I didn’t stick with it. And never really saw it go.