“I need a man”, I was joking. Unfortunately my Mum and Stepfather – via Facetime – laughed a little too loudly, “Yes, you do”. I was referring to things that needed doing in the flat.

They were referring to the fact I lived alone, and that they couldn’t quite believe that I was happiest that way.

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That appears to be the opening to my short story/novel/play/ whatever it is that budding writers keep talking about. I am not a budding writer. I am just someone who has a story in my head that has been going round and round for over 3 years. And I can’t stop hearing paragraphs forming, the general idea was there in one “bang”. But since then sneaky little things seep into my brain, observations I make that get noted, for some use in the future. What is not clearly defined to me is what that future is.
I know how determined you have to be as a budding writer. I have a close friend who has wanted to be one since her earliest years. She has built a successful professional career, making her money in sales, replacing that job with others part time to ensure she can write, taking specific trips to get ideas for books, written 3 novels, many short stories, mixes in writer circles, runs a book club and clearly has the talent and determination.
I am not that person.
Yet, here I am, writing.

I think I need to rethink my assumptions.