I've tried to keep a diary before, many times resulting in many failures. I'm hoping this isn't going to be one of those times. If you happen to somehow find this blog, feel free to have a read. I hope to do this for a living one day, and I'd like as much support as I can get.
On July 22nd 1998 I was delivered into this world, a small baby girl with dark hair and brown eyes into a hospital in the tiny country of Northern Ireland. Not the most beautiful place in the world, nor the most compassionate, but it's my home.
I grew up in a seaside town with my mum and dad and younger brother, and my childhood was filled with people who love me and who I love in return.
Ever since I was three years old I have loved anything to do with art, whether it be creating or gazing at, I was always transfixed by the colours and shapes and intricate movements of brush on canvas, and have been told I was particularly taken by the work of Rolf Harris. Shame he's a pedophile.
I was around six or seven when I began reading books. I started off with the usual fairy tales or Jacqueline Wilson novels, and soon progressed onto more advance literature for an eight year old as my mother handed me her old Nancy Drew stories which I still read to this day. Around a year after, my Granda gave my mum a copy of The Boy In the Striped Pajamas, labeling it as a 'must read'. I think he meant it was a must read for them, but my poor mum handed the book straight over to me without knowing its content, and it pretty much opened my little nine year old eyes to how horrible the world could be.
I've always had an interest in writing, and I frequently wrote stories throughout my childhood of mermaids and fairies and talking trees. But now it has become much more to me.
Writing has become and escape from the troubles of the world. Perhaps not the troubles faced by Bruno and Shmuel, but troubles I believe that are important to me, and if I can't sort them then I don't see who will.