I was thinking about it in bed the other night. I do a lot of random thinking in the middle of the night. I’m going to presume everyone else does too, so please don’t tell me the truth if this isn’t the case.

I was thinking about writing my first novel, and how at the time it seemed completely ordinary, but actually with hindsight it was truly awesome! So one day I wasn’t a writer. And then the next I was.

There aren’t many times in your life when you can say you changed the direction of your life in just one split second. I mean, you don’t one day become a surfer, and then the next you jump on a board and away you go. Of course not, you’d drown. Or at the least, swallow a lot of revolting sea water.

For me, choosing to write was like that. At the time I practiced yoga religiously every day. I was super skinny back then, and used to drink lots of green tea-my body was a temple and all that. What I found was that when I got to the same part of my routine every day, I thought the same thoughts over and over again. I was sure I was remembering flashbacks from Uni. Uni by this point was some long distant, rose coloured, hey day. But then what I noticed was that it wasn’t actually me I was thinking about. It felt like I was thinking about me, but I wasn’t. I mean, I know my memories from Uni are hazy, but I’m entirely sure I’d remember a six foot four guitar playing hottie.

So what was it then?

That’s when I realised. I was just making stuff up. Plain and simple. Then I realised something else. I’d actually been doing this all my life. I’m prone to day dreaming, mumbling to myself, reimagining things the way I would have wanted them to be. Re-writing everything around me.

I’d been  making stories up in my head my entire life and never known it.

So what did I do? I’ll tell you what I did. I nipped down my local Tesco, grabbed an A4 pad and some biros and I scribbled. I kept going until I had a first half draft in long hand.

Of course I soon realised my wrist would break from RSI and that it was time to dig out the old laptop. Still I carried on, banging away on the keys, not telling a single soul what I was doing. On and on and on . . . until eventually . . . I’d written a book.

Obviously it isn’t the book I finally released. It was total shit. Turns out that writing is like surfing after all and you do have to learn what you are actually doing, but eventually it was there. I’d created something. I’d written it all, down instead of keeping it as one of my day dreams. I’d shared the thoughts in my head and from inside of me The Art of Letting Go had been born.

I was a writer. My five year old self who always wanted to be would be so proud.

Of course becoming an author is a whole other story and perhaps one for another blog post  but there it is.

It’s made me realise something, and it’s a sentiment that mean’s everything and I live by it every day.

Shh. Lean in closer so I can whisper . .  . “Live by your dreams. Literally anything can happen, at any time, so just do it.”

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