Let's go back to the start

It's 1993. I'm an 11-year-old who's obsessed with Take That. And I decide to write some fan fiction...

I stood at the front of the class and took a deep breath.

And then I started to read.

My voice vibrated slightly at first, as did my entire body, but as soon as I could see that my classmates were hooked on my words I relaxed into it and found my flow.

I was 11 years old and had written a short mystery story at home, imagining that a child detective called Hayley (of course) had been asked by Take That’s Robbie and Gary to help them track down Mark, who’d gone missing just hours before a big concert. I think Howard and Jason only got passing mentions in the entire story – sorry, chaps.

I was proud of my tale and had brought it in to show my teacher. She’d enjoyed it, and had suggested I read it aloud to my class. Public speaking was way out of my comfort zone. But I did it. And the reaction of my peers had been worth it.

“Wow, I wrote a story and people liked it!” I thought to myself. And I’d like to say that I went home full of confidence and wonder and inspiration and that this became the definitive start of my journey to becoming an author. And, maybe in another timeline, it would’ve been. But, the truth is, my Take That mystery was practically the last piece of fiction I wrote for decades (with the exception of this shoddy short story I wrote in my 20s).

Because, in the years that followed that nervous primary school reading, I just…kind of forgot how much stories meant to me. How much my brain needed them. And how much I yearned to create them.

And I can’t even pinpoint how that happened.

Don’t get me wrong, I still engaged with stories on a daily basis. I read loads: Point Horror, Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley High books were my main sources of literature since YA fiction barely existed back then. I also loved films and TV, and English literature and media studies were by far my favourite subjects at school. But not once – like, literally never ever – did I pause to consider that I might actually be able to write or create my own stories when I was older. Because, well, a creative career wasn’t for people like me. After all, I was a sensible and conscientious child from a quiet suburb of Bristol who had zero connections or understanding of any creative industries whatsoever. And, frankly, I never even associated the word ‘creative’ with myself until very recently.

I never saw myself as creative because I was born old, cynical and steady (Yay Team Capricorn), and I assumed I needed an equally steady career to match my personality – and pay my rent.

My parents – both smart in different ways and avid readers themselves who’d left school at 16 – always encouraged me to pursue the subjects I enjoyed, which is why I never considered anything like law or medicine as my brain wasn’t wired that way. But I thought I could put my love for writing to good use in a journalism career.

So down the journalism path I trundled.

I got my journalism and media degree. Not long after graduating I landed a job at a local newspaper in Hampshire (as a receptionist – an invaluable insight into the industry in itself). I eventually plucked up the courage to make my ambitions known to the editor. I got given some freelance writing commissions. And I started to tell other people’s stories. I’d…made it?

But…I hated it.

And I never use the word ‘hate’ lightly.

I knew in my gut the first day I had to pick up the phone and interview someone (likely a D list celebrity) that this career wasn’t right for me. I’d always had strong instincts and my instincts were screaming ‘nooooooo’. I dreaded every freelance shift and, even though I churned out decent articles and features incredibly efficiently, I knew deep down that my efficiency was driven by my desire to get back home to my comfort zone – to my sofa and my telly and my books – as quickly as possible.

So my journalism ‘career’ ended before it really began.

What followed was a series of successful PR and media relations jobs. After all, if *being* a journalist wasn’t for me, surely telling other people’s stories *to* journalists was an alright Plan B? I knew how newspapers worked, found the media industry fascinating and enjoyed the stability of in-house roles. And, for 13 years, that Plan B worked out pretty well.

But…there was always that voice at the back of my brain, still. And it was saying, over and over and increasingly loudly: “Hayley, you know this doesn’t feel right”. And then I had a baby and the voice was no longer a whisper but an ear-piercing scream. There was simply no way I could go back to my high-profile job as a spokesperson for an international media company which involved being on call 24/7, since I was now also on call 24/7 for my child. It was just too much for me to contemplate. My rejection of the career I’d convinced myself I’d enjoyed before children felt almost physical.

So I resigned.

What happened next was a complete fluke. But a very fateful one.

But I’ll save that story for next time…

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This month’s tip for other aspiring authors: I decided to start this newsletter after joining Katie Sadler’s brilliant ‘Growing a sustainable author platform’* workshop a couple of months ago. I used to think you needed squillions of followers on social media to establish yourself as an ‘author’, but now I know otherwise. If you’re also looking for simple and achievable ways to grow your own platform, her workshop is currently on pre-sale for £50 via this link*.
Currently reading: Black Buck by Mateo Askaripour*.
This is proving to be massively readable a few chapters in, and I’m loving the storytelling device of presenting the narrative as if it’s a self-help manual for wannabe salespeople.
What I last enjoyed reading: Last One At The Party by Bethany Clift*.
A surprisingly uplifting story of an anxious, co-dependent millennial who finds herself the unlikeliest sole survivor of a deadly pandemic. It’s an easier read than you think, though it’s not without its harrowing moments (feel free to check in with me for more detailed content warnings).
What I last enjoyed watching: Cheaters on BBC iPlayer.
Bitesize 10-minute episodes made this contemporary rom-com an easy yet emotional watch. It’s also got the mum from Waffle the Wonderdog in it (this is a CBeebies reference for fellow knackered parents).
What I’ve been thinking a lot about: The plight of Ukrainians (please donate here if you can) and the power of hope being masterfully deployed by a former comedian (comedians are expert storytellers) who ended up as President of Ukraine having portrayed a fictional version on TV. Sometimes life truly is stranger than fiction.