‘People like us read books, we don’t write them.'
So was handed down the judgment from my parents when I answered the inevitable question asked of all early teens: what do you want to do when you grow up?
It’s easy to be knocked back when you are a writer in embryo, feeding your senses (five), and poring over writers’ manuals, wondering what a voice is when it doesn’t sing beautifully (kill adverbs). So when at last you’re invited to walk London’s literary streets you’re overjoyed… until you watch eyebrows rise when you say you come from ’ull and hear yourself called darlingbecause they can’t remember your name. It’s good to return to the city of your birth and find the true literary heart beating in the bosom of ’ull Truck Theatre, where writers welcome writers, embryo or not.
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