I’ve always wanted to write novels.
And I’ve always believed I would – not just that I could, but that it was inevitable, as much an assured part of my future life as death and taxes. But that’s the kicker – that single word, future.
When I was young, I was sure that my status as a published writer would be bestowed by adulthood, that as soon as I got a little life experience under my belt I’d be belting them out as prolifically as Stephen King.
At university I told myself that as soon as my turbulent student days were behind me, I’d get that first novel done. All I needed was a little stability.
Two postgraduate courses and many temp jobs later, and I found myself in a stable, permanent job in a respectable industry, and I just knew that once I’d been settled in a while and felt secure, I could really focus on writing.
And that’s how one day becomes maybe becomes if only. And your dream can die many long years before you do.
The ideas don’t go away. They’ve been with me for years, characters I can visualise in my head as clearly as my oldest friends, plot points I’ve honed over dozens of bus journeys and idle minutes.
I just need to write the damn thing.
So, there’s nothing else for it. May will be my Personal Novel Writing Month (because waiting until November would just be one more excuse). I will draft this story from beginning to end if it kills me, or all my characters. I’m about to move to a new flat where I will, for the first time in many months, have room for a desk and a dedicated writing space. And I will use it, every day.
There’s really no excuse not to. There never really was.