[Forward]

Now, hush children, for I am about to tell you how I became a Writer.

It’s quite a sad story, with lots of disappointments, so you might want a hanky.

Right. I started writing – ooh, aged about five. I wrote stories much the same as any small child who knows for a fact that she’s really a princess and has been adopted into a lowly family – lots of ponies and twinkly magic stuff. A direct copy, in fact, of whatever book I had been reading. And I read a lot. By the time I was aged around eleven my father was borrowing books on his adult ticket for me, because I’d read my way through the children’s section of the library.

This meant I had a completely comprehensive, if rather previous, indoctrination into the world of Adult Literature. Whenever I give talks on writing (which I do whenever they can sober me up, pour me into suitably pressed clothing and poke me onto a stage), the biggest piece of advice I offer to the audience who want to know how to become writers is – become readers. Not just readers of the sort of books you want to write, but readers of every word which doesn’t crawl away under the weight of your eyeballs. Cereal packets (I learned some very valuable facts about crocodiles from the back of a packet of Puffed Wheat, and I am awaiting a suitable opportunity to use it), Early Reader books that your kids leave lying around the house while they’re cleaning their teeth (that’s the kids, not the books. You knew that, didn’t you?) Magazines, newspapers, the facts on the back of the smoothie bottles.

And so I wrote stuff. Horrible, terrible, derivative stuff. But my teachers at school liked it. They used to encourage me by putting bits of my writing into school magazines. At this point I became addicted to seeing my name in print, which is a great addiction to have if you want to be a writer. Also a terrible addiction to Eccles cakes, which, for those of you who are unfortunate enough to never have encountered one, are a kind of pastry thing with raisins in. No, not nearly as nasty as they sound, honestly. So.

Where did we get to? Ah yes. Picture, if you will, me aged around fourteen. Addicted to writing, publication and Eccles cakes. Two of these things featured heavily in my life and the third didn't. Guess which one? Yep, that's right. I learned the art of Graceful Acceptance in the Face of Rejection very early. It's something I'm still working on. I have a particular smile that I use. Look, this is it. You might want to practice it yourselves, while I pop off and jam in a few more Eccles Cakes to give me the strength to carry on tomorrow, when I shall tell you the Horrible Truth about my writing career. And possibly add a few useful tips. These may be about writing, or they may be about how to keep flies off your jam, you'll have to wait and see.