How I became a writer

It may sound disingenuous to say that no one is more surprised than I am to see my novel published this week. Surprised and delighted, obviously. Actually, that’s an understatement. I’m thrilled, incredulous, exhilarated, honoured . . . chuffed to bits, frankly.

Looking back, I always wanted to be a writer. I wrote endless stories as a child, but perhaps more importantly, I have always been a big reader. I’m the youngest of four children, born within four chaotic years. My mother denies ever teaching me to read: apparently she simply noticed one day that I was reading, having learned by osmosis over the shoulders of my three big brothers.

As part of a large and noisy family, from a very young age books became my refuge. We lived in the depths of the countryside. It wasn’t fashionable in the 1970s to line up wall-to-wall educational activities for your children. My parents believed in a certain amount of benign neglect. Beyond meal times, life was unstructured. We wandered freely, often barefoot, paddled in the village stream, climbed trees and made dens. If the appeal of the outdoors palled or the weather was unkind, what greater pleasure than curling up in a corner with a book?

When I was in my teens I must have made a grandiose statement of intent: one day I would be a novelist. The only reason I know this is that I remember my father’s reply. “I don’t think anyone should write a novel unless they’ve got something to say.”

It sticks in my mind because it was a little crushing at the time. But off I went to university, happily immersing myself in a whole lot more books, and emerged to become first an editor and then a journalist. I was writing, all right: indeed I can think of no better preparation for a novelist than serving your apprenticeship at the coalface of hackdom.

There’s no waiting for the Muse to strike when an editor is breathing down your neck, waiting for copy. And there’s no point being precious about your work when your carefully crafted prose has to pass the red pen of an eagled eyed sub.

With work and family, life was busy and full. Any idea about writing a novel was so far on the back burner it had more or less slipped down behind the cooker. And then I entered a (very small) short story competition – and to my surprise I won. I wrote a couple more stories for the sheer pleasure of it.

Buoyed by this tiny success, I mentioned to a friend how much I’d enjoyed the process. “Send me the stories,” he said. One thing led to another. He persuaded me to talk to a commissioning editor at a publishing house; she encouraged me to begin a novel. I developed a synopsis and wrote the first few thousand words. She made some comments, and asked for more chapters. And so it went, back and forth, a game of editorial table tennis.

Meanwhile I attended a creative writing evening class in Oxford, which was excellent. I used the homework tasks to develop aspects of my novel. I found myself reading more critically, paying close attention to technique and style.

Writing became an obsession, if a secret one, squeezed into the gaps in my busy life. I told no one outside my immediate family; after all, I still wasn’t sure I could pull it off. Would my story work? Would the publisher take it on?

I soldiered on. My characters took over my life, demanding my attention. When the day job prevented me from pressing on, I felt bereft. More than that, I worried about my characters, concerned that I had abandoned them, stranded them in narrative limbo until I had time to return and pick up the threads. A few months later I had a completed first draft and a publishing contract. Then the scary part: sending it out to four trusted friends for critical comment. I passed another major milestone when I shared the manuscript with family members. My husband read it on holiday: I tried not to scrutinise his face for reaction.

And then it was done. Finished. Signed off and ready to go into the publishing sausage machine that would transform the jumbled workings of my mind into an actual book. Meanwhile my mind is already abuzz with the next book…

Now the truly terrifying moment: seeing it pass into the hands of strangers. It’s like the day you drop your beloved child and nursery for the first time, sick with fear that he will be misunderstood or unhappy. All I can do is hope that it will strike a chord with readers.

​Responses so far have been very encouraging. Biased though he may be, my father, at least, has been positive, all these decades later. “Whatever happens, keep writing,” he wrote in a recent email. “And yes, you do have something to say – plenty!”