I'm a retired teacher who lives in Lincolnshire. I'm married with 2 adult sons.

At the writing group I attend we were asked to write a piece about why we want to write. Id like to share the piece I wrote that explains how I came to write my first book.

In the quiet sanctuary of my bedroom, I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an avalanche of discarded clothes, keepsakes, and forgotten treasures. This spring cleaning ritual had turned into more than just a physical decluttering; it was a journey back into my past. As I rummaged through the depths of my dresser, my fingers brushed against something crisp and folded.

Curious, I pulled out the letter, its edges yellowed and brittle with age. I recognised the looping handwriting immediately—it was my own, but from years ago when dreams were uncomplicated and the world was full of promise. The letter began with the exuberance of youth, detailing ambitions of becoming a writer, of crafting stories that would resonate with readers in ways that echoed through time.

“Dear Future Me,” it began, “I hope you are writing wonderful grown-up books like the ones I told myself I would write! I want to tell stories that make people feel alive, stories about magic and adventures, about love and friendship!”

As I read the words, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. The aspirations of childhood flickered like fireflies in the dim light of my memory. Back then, I believed in the power of my imagination, convinced that one day, I would hold a book with my name on the cover. In the years that followed, however, life had intervened—careers, responsibilities, and the mundane rhythm of adulthood dulled the vibrant hues of my dreams.

The letter prompted something deep within me, a rekindling of the passion I thought had been extinguished. Inspired and invigorated, I set down the letter and considered my surroundings. The clutter felt less like chaos and more like a canvas for renewal. I envisioned my desk covered in scattered papers, the sunlight pouring through the window whilst my thoughts poured onto the pages.

But first, I needed to confront the reluctant truth of my adult life. I had traded imagination for practicality, my days filled with reports and meetings instead of novels and characters. What had happened to the girl who could conjure entire worlds with a flick of her pen?

With determination lighting a spark in my chest, I decided I wouldn’t let another year slip by without chasing my dreams. I reached for my laptop, a modern-day magic wand, and began typing. Ideas flowed freely as memories infused my narratives—fierce dragons living in hidden caves, enchanted forests waiting to be discovered, and the brave heroes I long imagined.

The words tumbled down the screen like waterfalls, bringing to life characters born from both my past and present. Each character echoed a piece of my own heart, making the stories vibrant and alive, books I could see becoming tangible in my hand.

Days turned into weeks as I dedicated myself to the craft. I cloaked myself in my childhood aspirations, drawing strength from the letter at my side—a reminder of the girl who refused to let go of her dreams. And when the first draft of my manuscript was complete, I felt an overwhelming sense of triumph. It was not just a collection of words; it was a testament to resilience and the rediscovery of a once-forgotten self.

I vowed to honour the little girl who believed anything was possible. The letter would remain tucked away, a cherished reminder that within every end lies a new beginning, and it’s never too late to chase the stories that stir our souls.

I don’t think I’ll ever write my grown up books. But the children’s author I have become is exciting and full of so many stories I can feel myself ready to burst with enthusiasm and joy.