I don’t wish for the glamour any more. I have realised my dream and I’m satisfied. In a few weeks, I’ll happily go back to my 9 to 5 job, for which I am depressingly over-qualified, and sit in the attic like I always did, typing the court documents and taking care of various other legal jobs the clients aren’t around to do anymore, so that the deceased can rest in peace. I’ll have a meal at the local tapas restaurant to celebrate the fact that my hard work has paid off, and spend my leisure time playing with my son rather than writing a novel. And I will be content.
Three years, four months and one day. That’s how long it’s taken me to write The Tangled Web. I can’t begin to describe how I feel now that it’s finished, and in two days time, it will be available for you all to buy, and enjoy/criticise.
I was the same as most naive young writers back in July 2008. I had just turned twenty-eight and I felt like crap. What? You expect a writer to be a little less succinct and to be all flowery about how they feel? Well, I’m not a professional writer. I’m a normal girl. I’m honest about how I feel. And back then, I felt crap.
So what made me feel so dejected? Firstly, the fact that I was twenty-eight. I felt ancient. Then the realisation that years of working and studying to be a paralegal were pointless now that “The Credit Crunch” had arrived and my career was going nowhere. I wasn’t speaking to my parents or sister. And I had a huge fight with a dear friend.
Looking back, I wish I was twenty-eight again. I was lucky to still have a job even if it wasn’t as a paralegal because so many of my colleagues were made redundant or had their hours and wages cut. I came out relatively unscathed. I always knew I’d eventually resolve things with my family and that dear friend was actually an idiot. At the time though, I felt like my world was ending.
I sat down to write a blog on my MySpace for that friend I had lost. He never read it. But it was that night I decided to write the book. I needed a creative outlet and something to occupy my mind and he always told me I was a great writer. I promised that friend that when my book was published, I would visit him on the other side of the continent and deliver a copy to him to read.
Things change. Life changes. My life is not as I had expected it to be when I started writing this book. Like so many people, I imagined that having a book published would feel glamorous. I’d be living in a larger house, be financially secure and have a much more interesting life. The truth is, I’m sitting in my pyjamas at 5pm, blogging on the same antique computer I wrote much of this book on, listening to my baby son shouting at Rastamouse. There’s nothing glamorous or exciting about my life, or this book launch. It’s nothing like I had expected or hoped, and travelling to a foreign country to deliver a manuscript is way down on my list of priorities. In fact, it’s not even on the list of things to do before I die any more. He can buy it on Amazon like everyone else.