Any writer who says they are not intimated by a blank page is a liar. I have not always felt this way. When I was a tweenager, I revelled in the challenge. My first stories were typed on an ancient Mac and stored on floppy discs. Most of them were cheap knock off attempts at fan fiction. One spiralling epic tale revolved around travelling with the Second Doctor Who and his apprentices, Zoe and Jamie.
Sadly I didn’t learn one of the first rules of writing in the digital age: back up and migrate your work. The first ten years of my writing life have been lost to the mists of time, and good riddance to most of it. However I do sometimes miss my unfinished YA novel, modelled on gang culture and competitive sport (not too dissimilar to The Hunger Games) and strange moralist tales about drug use and redemption – probably modelled on reading far too many ‘real life’ magazines at my gran’s house on Saturday afternoons.
This blog is about putting the past behind me. It is not a place for me to mourn past writing failures or about dips in my writing mojo. This blog is my attempt to hold myself accountable, to make sure I plant my bottom in a comfy chair, pick up a pen and do what I’m meant to do: write.