I don’t ever remember making a conscious decision to be a writer but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to write. I can clearly recall being eight year’s old and my teacher asking me to write a story about being stranded on a desert island. I immediately set myself to the task and became so lost in the world I created, I forgot to go to lunch and kept on writing. She returned to the classroom to find me still scribbling away. To this day I can remember the details of that story and the joy I felt as I realized I finally had the skills to translate my imaginings into words. Life moved on and I expressed myself in the written word as much as I possibly could and I dreamed of becoming a journalist and spending my every waking hour with a word processor. But this was the late eighties in Ireland when journalism was considered a most precarious profession and not altogether suited to a girl. So, I found myself in university studying English and by the time I was finished was convinced I couldn’t write anything of any worth so what was the point. Many years of distraction and diversion followed but underlying it all was a nagging need to write, to find an outlet for all the curiosity and wondering in my brain. It wouldn’t let me be so I finally gave in and went back to college and a course in journalism resulted in a career as a journalist. Turns out I could successfully string a few sentences together. However, as much as I loved chasing a story, putting in the research and crafting an article into shape, I was still left with the problem of what to do with all the stories running around my head. I took a few of them and presented them to publishers and agents and, in that time honoured fashion so familiar to authors, I duly received rejection after soul-destroying rejection. Time was moving on, my bank balance was beyond critical and my life was being held ransom to a dream. Other sources of much needed income beckoned and then the greatest diversion of them all happened – motherhood. Writing aspirations found themselves buried underneath nappies, endless bottles, vomit, fevers, tantrums, cleaning, washing, feeding and the general drudge that comes with motherhood. Oh and let’s not forget – all of it on little or no sleep. My brain simply went numb and on my more lucid days I seemed to remember I could do something with my fingers other than mash avocado but couldn’t for the life of me remember what that was…..
However, whilst I was ensconced on planet mummy, a revolution was taking place in the publishing world. An online company called Amazon were inviting anyone to submit their work. Detractors said it would never catch on and the rest, as they say, is history. When I finally managed to send my cherubs off to school, the first thing I did was treat myself to a new computer, complete with the latest edition of Word. I’d spent seven years with stories running around my head and I unleashed my stiff and frustrated fingers onto the keyboard. The result was three distinct short stories:
After losing years on the traditional publishing merry-go-round I decided to embrace the revolution and publish independently on Amazon. I’m loving the freedom and independence it affords me and the thrill of finally seeing my work in print is indescribable. All those years ago my little desert island story ended up being published in a collection of stories from school-children. It’s been a long road but I’m finally a published author again. I hope you enjoy my three offerings and will join me on the rest of my journey. Happy reading – Roisin.