Being a writer has been a theme in my daydreams as long as I can remember. Sparkling in its own cloud bubble is a picture of a farmhouse in the country, with a room overlooking rolling hills and timber. In that room is a sturdy desk, a wooden chair and an electric typewriter, which of course is paired with a stack of pages from my latest novel.
The problem is that I’m not brave enough.
It’s a terrifying thought to put your words down in permanent ink to burn into someone’s mind, to let them critique or judge or worse, imagine where the line between fact and fiction begins and ends. We write what we know, what we have experienced, what we have felt and sometimes the best stories are the dark ones, and then everyone is left guessing what, if anything, was real in the plot line.