On the odd occasion, when I emerge from the cocoon of my pyjamas to interact with non-imaginary people – mostly due to the promise of food, which lures me like a moth to a flame – there comes a moment when someone will inevitably ask, when are you going to get a real job?
I go to a lot of writer’s talks. Mostly because they inspire me and secretly because I’m hoping talent is contagious. At these talks I’ve noticed the thing that has me sliding to the edge of my seat is when the writer opens up about exactly how they became a writer. Had they known since birth? Did they write their first novel, aged 6 on butcher’s paper in red crayon? Were they struck by lightning and taken over by an unexplainable neurosis which caused them to put pen to paper?