Here’s to making dreams come true

— letters, epiphanies, and heartfelt nudges to the creative spirit.

So... Why Am I Doing This?

Becoming an author has been rattling around in my brain for years. One of those “maybe one day” dreams I kept putting off for all sorts of reasons. Chief among them? That nagging voice whispering “not someone like you.”

What does that even mean, eh? Someone like me—what, human? Female? No degree? Bit of a weirdo with too many notebooks and a head full of nonsense? Honestly, past me needs a firm slap and a strong cuppa.

As a kid, I had a wild imagination but not many traditional stories on the shelf. Most of my tales lived in my head—acted out during play, dreamed up when I should’ve been asleep. I didn’t grow up surrounded by books, but once I did fall into reading properly, I was hooked. The kind of stories that made me feel seen or let me escape completely—that’s the stuff that lit the fire.

Still, I didn’t write a damn thing. Not seriously.

Not until my best mate—part muse, part hype squad—called me out and said: “Go on then. Show me.”
Challenge accepted. How hard could it be?

(Spoiler: quite hard.)

But once I started, something clicked. Writing doesn’t feel like work—it feels like breathing. Like letting all the chaotic, beautiful, ridiculous bits of my brain out to play.

So here I am. Dream in hand, nerves in tow, making it up as I go.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Here’s to giving it a proper go—and seeing what’s possible when you finally stop waiting for permission.