I sometimes joke that my writing career peaked at 24—three chapters into a novel, buoyed by hope and instant coffee. Even now, a friend insists on bringing up my unfinished book at odd intervals. “Whatever happened to that bloke you wrote about?” he’ll say, as if the character might show up at the pub any day now.

Instead, I drifted into the grown-up world of financial advice. “Adviser,” “trainer,” “tutor”—if there’s a job title involving paperwork and polite nodding, I’ve probably had it. For nearly four decades, my creative energy went into decoding tax guidance and mentoring nervous exam candidates. Sometimes I’d remember that abandoned novel, but usually only when something dull needed doing.

Then came my most dramatic plot twist yet. Age 62, I collapsed at a country fair—right next to the sausage roll stand. My wife, who’d only signed up for this three months earlier, was distraught. Apparently, “in sickness and in health” comes at you fast. Fading in and out, I heard her voice: “I can’t lose him now!” It cut through the medical blur and left me thinking, in that odd hospital hush, that maybe it was time to do something about those unfinished stories.

My first instinct, predictably, was to tidy up some emails from my hospital bed. But something had changed: whenever I tried to think about pensions or risk tolerance, my brain hit the brakes. But fiction? Suddenly, that was all I could do. Out came the old characters. This time, I finished the book—Whispers of the Forgotten. It went out into the world, garnered a handful of glowing reviews (thanks, friends and family), but the sales numbers stayed modest. The age-old question: “Is it any good?” remained.

Deciding to put my work to the test, I declared 2025 my “throw-it-at-the-wall” year. I entered every short story competition I stumbled across, sending out flash fiction from train carriages, waiting rooms, and sometimes in a panic at midnight. The first win was a complete shock—“The Page is Printed”—and even now, with four wins and fourteen placings by June, I’m not entirely sure there wasn’t some mistake. Turns out, I quite like being a fridge or a mirror for 500 words at a time.

Flash fiction gives me permission to be anyone—or anything—for a page. Sometimes I’m a woman, sometimes an inanimate object, sometimes someone who remembers to save his work before the power cuts out. There’s something freeing about telling a story with no expectation except that someone, somewhere, might laugh or pause for a second.

I’m heading to the Bath Flash Fiction Festival soon, still half-expecting to be found out as an imposter. But as 2025 ticks on, I’m hooked. The best part? I honestly don’t know what comes next, and for once, that’s not a terrifying thought.

If you see me at a country fair, nudge me away from the sausage rolls. If you see me at a reading, say hello. I’ll probably be the one looking surprised to be there.

Read 'What Mirrors Cannot Change' here, winner of N2tS 2025 Flash Fiction Competition.