In 2012, I read one book. I wrote a few hundred words, and deleted almost all of them.
Five years later, I’ve published my first book, written over 500,000 words in the past twelve months, and am on target to read fifty two books in 2017.
If you’d told me when I was in my early twenties where I’d be by my late twenties, I would’ve asked you what you were smoking.
I’d always planned to publish a book in my mid-twenties, but this was a personal goal I’d never told anyone. Worse still, I’d done little towards achieving it other than studying for a BA in Creative Writing. On the outside, all looked good: I was in a long-term relationship, had a full-time job, and was about to buy my first house. But it was never the life I’d wanted. The writer’s life I’d wanted since I was a child seemed lightyears away.
Already grieving for a life I could never have, my maternal grandmother (referred to from hereon in as Nan), had a stroke. If she didn’t have surgery to unblock an artery, she risked another stroke.
She’d always wanted me to be happy and to chase my dreams, but I’d always held myself back. Seeing the woman I’d once thought of as invincible so frail made me realise just how fragile life is. I was done wasting mine.
Never again would I be the person that got up at four o’clock in the afternoon, only getting dressed so that my partner didn’t know I’d wasted another day. Never again would I be controlled by my emotions. It was time I took charge of my life.
For the first time in my life, I took myself seriously as a writer. I got home from work and didn’t move from the sofa until I’d written 1,000 words. Often I wrote more. I built a routine, and eventually, I had a book. That book became What Happens in New York.
And now, two years after I started that journey, I’m about to publish the second, along with my first nonfiction book.
If you’d told me in 2012 what I’d achieve by 2017, I never would’ve believed you.
You can find me on social media via the following links: