Somewhere in the attic, jammed into plastic boxes to deter mice, beasties and the dreich Scottish rain, lurk notebooks chronicling, in a twelve-year-old’s scrawl, siblings visiting Santa Claus. Add a manuscript about my cats’ adventures, and a book of almost-poetry and aspiring song lyrics (despite an ok-at-best voice and no talent for any instrument).

Quite the mishmash. But then, I was never interested in writing the same thing repeatedly. Especially not now, when in the last few years my eyes have been opened to a diversity of writing and a host of new authors to whet my appetite.

I’d always loved books, from the beautifully illustrated Ladybird editions I devoured pre-school, to my favourite older children’s series, ‘Flambards’ by K.M. Peyton. My mum, a voracious reader, introduced me to authors from Jean Plaidy to Irvine Welsh. Dad, an avid comic reader in his childhood, bought me comics weekly; to this day, my beloved copies of Jinty, Tammy, Penny and the innovative Misty join the immature scribblings up in the cobwebby loft.

I may use a Kindle for convenience, but I’ll never get over my love of physical books. This stemmed from collecting out-of-print Chalet School books, scouring charity shops, antiquarian booksellers and flea markets to pour over their delightful book jackets, and smell musty, well-thumbed pages.

Learning languages is one of my favourite pastimes. Seeing people communicate, verbally and gesturally, the subtleties in variations of conveying information, fascinates me. I teach children with complex needs; we focus on the importance of communication, whether in the form of signing, symbols or low/high technology. It is a fundamental need, a bridge that connects us all; storytelling is just one communication tool.

My initial idea to attempt a novel stemmed from my enjoyment of reading stories set where I was holidaying. My family started visiting Catalonia in 2018, and Tarragona Province sparked my imagination. It irked me that the majority of narratives centred in Spain took place in Andalucía, with a few in Barcelona (backdrop of my favourite books by Carlos Ruiz Zafón), so when the world closed down, I put my hand to a concept that seemed ridiculous at the time: if no one has written it, then write it yourself!

After decades of being tentative about putting my writing out there, it took a pandemic and hitting the age of fifty to make me realise, nothing will come about if you don’t even try.

So, I started the novel.

As part of its structure, I began authoring short stories. Some, like ‘Beyond the Lens’, were fictional tales inspired by old photographs, snapshots of familiar places in bygone eras from a series of books by Editorial Efadós called ‘Catalunya Desapareguda’ (‘Catalonia Disappeared’). I gave personalities and speech to the subjects in sepia. Historical fiction is where my true passion lies — not just the composition of it, but also the prerequisite research, life enriched by curiosity and discovery.

Then I discovered flash fiction and dipped my toe into poetry.

I entered competitions, started having a little success with them. What being longlisted can do for the confidence of a writer with imposter syndrome!

But with my age and life experience, winning these competitions is not as important as the storytelling. I need to write — every day; the words and characters are bursting out of me. The creation of work and the belief I can succeed, in my heart, are the prizes.