I have no real memory of when I decided to become a writer. I know that I was a voracious reader as a kid, and my parents were sensible enough not to prevent me from reading anything.
My Dad had a huge couple of bookshelves. Now days he’s all about the ebooks, but back then that bookcase was like a shelf of jewels packed with McCaffrey, Asimov, Clarke, and Tolkien. Dad has always been a sci fi and fantasy reader. He had (maybe still has) boxes of Asimov’s Science Fiction and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. From what I understand about his childhood with all his brothers (seven in all!), he was able to open a book and disappear into those worlds. I always thought that was a magical ability.
I was an only child for thirteen years, so for me books were a gateway for a different reason; I found friends and wonder in them.
This love of reading my Dad passed onto me, and under its heat my imagination blossomed. However, once I had finished all the books in the book shelf—I was always a fast reader—I had no choice but to progress onto writing my own.
The simple fact one told me I couldn’t do it, and even though there were no writing classes for me to attend it didn’t matter. I had this green hardback journal, and I would carry it around with me everywhere. Lunches I would find a quiet spot in the lovely garden of the school, and just write. Even today, my former classmates remember that book and how I would squirrel myself away with it.
Of course I’ve re-read that story, since my Mum kept it all these years—as parents are want to do. It’s a tale of a mysterious man, magic, and love. There are plenty of horses and tigers in it, because what else does a thirteen year old love but those sort of things? Yet there are some themes that I still write about in there.
I wish I could send the young woman—that young Pip—a letter though. It would probably go something like this…
Gosh you have so much energy and hope right now. Hold onto that and all those characters in your head. Maybe your friends don’t understand, but that is OK. In fact they’re going to love what you do in a few years.
However, you’re going to reach a point  where you run out of juice. You’re going to look around and see that there is no one else you know doing what you are doing. You’re going to feel lonely. You’re going to try and find similar artists, and the literary community is going to turn their noses up at you. That’s going to hurt, but hang in there.
Don’t wait to find people like you. Don’t worry in about ten years or so they’ll find you. There’s this thing the Internet coming…you wouldn’t understand it now, but it’s going to change everything for the better.
Most importantly, don’t give up on writing. A car that has stopped is much harder to get started again, and if you give up for ten years, it’s going to be harder coming back to it. If you could get our apprenticeship book out of the way sooner rather than later, we’d get this career thing launched sooner. Seriously, did you get the message? Don’t stop!
PS. Don’t worry about posting things to the United States. You’ll never hear back from them, so don’t bother standing in line. Also, those little green return post coupons are a lie—so don’t let that crush you either.