I’m writing a novel.

It’s something I’ve always thought about doing but never acted on. Books have always been my escape, for as long as I can remember I have picked up a book to calm my mind and clear my head. Or, to fill my head with something that wasn’t my life. I’m grateful that my family were avid readers and pushed me to read whatever I wanted as often as I liked.

I think that because of this I’ve always had an active imagination. When I couldn’t sleep, or found class too dull to keep my attention I would instead withdraw into some story I made up in my head. Sometimes I would replay the same story for months on end, changing small details to better suit what I enjoyed at the time. Other times it would change daily depending on my mood. I still do this often when I can’t sleep at night. Lay in bed and tell myself a story. It’s calming.

I’ve recently been reminded by an old friend that at one point in my life I was occasionally creative. That I played with the notion of being a famous author. That maybe I should sit down and actually do it.

So here goes…