Like many children, I grew up being read to—whether it was a poem about smugglers and highwaymen or a beloved classic like The House at Pooh Corner, I absorbed those stories and the worlds they opened up. As a shy girl with a speech impediment, I dreaded attention and rarely spoke. Instead, I took every opportunity I could to escape into the wild and magical realm of words.
The written word was always my friend.
By the age of six or seven, I was inventing stories and writing poems. Whenever asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said, “a writer.” Writing gave me a way to express feelings I couldn’t verbalise—and it still does. Like Cyrano de Bergerac I could only declare my love through poems, and deal with the grief of break up or loss through the written word. Even now, when I’m writing and want to tap into raw emotion, I reach for pen and paper. There’s something more organic about that physical act.
For me, storytelling is a way to reveal hidden emotions, forge connections, and share my unique perspective—a perspective grounded in empathy and understanding. Stories can spark change, pose questions, and challenge the status quo. They always have. Think of Dickens, Kafka and George Orwell—writers who brought injustice to light through fiction. My greatest hope is to write something that resonates with someone, makes them feel seen, and gives them hope.
That, to me, is success.
People remember how a story made them feel. We connect deeply with individual experiences—like the solitude of The Martian, or the unspoken ache of a hidden relationship in Taylor Jenkins Reid’s Atmosphere. Some stories stay with us forever. Those are two of mine. Which ones have stayed with you?
Butterworth Books 