Rachael Eyre's Blog, page 11

Forbidden love in a hostile world ... Love And Robotics

Here's a sneak preview of Love and Robotics, due to be released in December.

It's the year 2162. The Centre of Experimental Robotics has created their most advanced "artificial" yet, Josh Foster. Unfortunately this prototype of the perfect man likes to think for himself.

CER needs the help of Alfred Wilding, the brother of its late founder. Alfred is famously difficult, robophobic and won't talk to the press. To everyone's amazement he and Josh become friends - then more than friends. Yet this is an offence in their society ...

Coming to Kindle Soon: Love and Robotics by Rachael Eyre

I am very pleased to announce that after three years' hard slog I've completed Love and Robotics, my third novel. A sci fi romance set in an alternate universe, it explores the possibilities of love in the digital age and how society penalises unconventional relationships.

I'll confirm the launch date in the next few weeks. At the moment I aim to publish in the run up to Christmas. I've thoroughly enjoyed spending time with these characters and hope readers will feel the same way.

An Open Letter to Julian Fellowes: Please Don't Kill Off Thomas

I know what I'm about to say won't change matters one jot; filming finished months ago. But I think I speak for legions of Downton Abbey fans when I say: don't drive Thomas Barrow to suicide.

In the show's heyday Thomas was the servant viewers loved to hate. A kind of discount Iago, he and his equally reprehensible pal O'Brien used to skulk by the back door, sharing sneaky cigs and craftier schemes. We never learned the reason behind Sarah's motiveless malignity, but Thomas's secret torment was soon revealed: he's gay.

Normally I hate the "X is horrible because they're gay" hypothesis. It's cliched, lazy and smacks of homophobia. In this case, it's not only excusable, it's almost inevitable. Remember that Thomas lives in a world where most people believe the tenets of Christianity, and therefore Leviticus. Oscar Wilde's trial was within living memory; if someone with his fame and influence could be destroyed by the legal system, what chance does a friendless working class lad have? Thomas is forced to live at a time where he's considered mentally ill at best, a pervert and a sinner at worst. Otherwise likeable characters tell him his feelings are "foul", even while acknowledging he can't help who he is.

I know Thomas fan girls exist. I'm not one of them. I hate bullies, snobs and hypocrites, and he's all three. But over the past few seasons we've been made to appreciate the loneliness and emptiness of his life. How he hoards letters from a worthless ex; how he craves affection and will pursue men who aren't remotely interested; how at one point he started taking an abortive "cure", nearly poisoning himself in the process.

This past series has seen him suffer one humiliation after another. The staff don't bother to hide their dislike, he can't make friends with another young man without suspicion. He knows his job is on the line but has nowhere else to go. His future looks bleak - and, in the last few episodes he's reached breaking point. If this was a novel of the time there would be no path open to him but suicide.

That's the obvious direction to take. They'll probably try to justify it by saying "Thomas has always been a tragic figure" or "We've always had this arc in mind for him." I for one am sick of seeing gay characters as walking wounded or mere plot devices. In a cast of hundreds, why should the gay character be singled out for misery? We've seen other characters do appalling things - O'Brien, Rose's revolting mother, creator's favourite Lady Mary - but go unpunished.

Wouldn't it be great if Downton could break the mould? If, suddenly and wonderfully, Thomas finds love where he least expects it. If Bertie's cousin, currently painting boys in Tangiers, shows up and takes a shine to him. Or he gets a new situation and finds a likeminded friend. For all the men convicted for homosexuality, there must have been many more who had loving, fulfilled relationships - why should Thomas be cheated of a happy ending? Upstairs, Downstairs gave its gay character a sensitive, convincing love affair, so why can't Downton?

Weird Girl Notes: Living With Dyspraxia

It's one of the hoary chestnuts of Writing 101: Write What You Know. This being Dyspraxia Awareness Week, I thought I'd share my experience of this most misunderstood of conditions.

Growing up I never felt like the other children. I craved friendship but was so boisterous and noisy, I alienated my contemporaries; I retreated into a world of make believe instead. I scorned rules, spat on authority and seemed incapable of keeping myself tidy. My teachers must've thought I was a budding serial killer, but they missed the real seeds of my unhappiness: I couldn't bloody do anything.

I couldn't tie my laces, wash or style my hair, colour within the lines, catch, cartwheel, climb a rope, do joined up writing, tell the time - the list went on and on. Maths was anathema to me: the slippery hieroglyphs on the page made no sense and refused to tot up inside my head.

I hated being different. Everybody assumed I was "backward" - including, to my lasting chagrin, my own father. One of my earliest memories is him declaring I was "mentally deficient" to a roomful of my stepmother's relatives. I haven't seen him since I was six, thank God, but the damage was done; it has always been my berserk button. If anyone so much as implied I was stupid, blood was shed.

Fortunately Mum was stubborn and demanded answers. After years of mysterious cross examinations and being ordered to catch bean bags, I was diagnosed on my tenth birthday. You should see my expression on the photos. The Grumpy Cat is a novice.

You'd think that now my problem had been officially identified, the hard part would be over. Far from it. Challenges only shifted and proliferated as I grew older. As a teenager I worried about being picked last for the netball team; as an adult, my bluster and difficulty in pitching my feelings meant I performed dismally in interviews. This puts you in a bind with employers: do you disclose your condition and risk discrimination, or bumble along and be labelled incompetent? Even experienced health professionals claim you can't be disabled if you have a degree, which is arrant nonsense.

Thankfully this is beginning to change. It's estimated between 5 and 10 percent of the population have dyspraxia - and, contrary to common belief, they're not all male. Nor does it magically disappear when you get older. We now have an openly dyspraxic MP, Emma Lewell Buck; events like Dyspraxia Awareness Week boost its profile. Not long ago I had a lady earnestly explain that her daughter was dyspraxic, and what this entailed. It gave me an eerie feeling of deja vu.

It's great that kids are finally receiving the support they need, but what about the millions of adults with dyspraxia? If as many public figures as possible were to acknowledge they had the condition, it could make a real difference. If you're a writer with a disability, you can do your part by creating likeable, believable disabled characters, not the one note jokes or long suffering saints audiences are accustomed to.

Dyspraxia. Seldom a blessing, frequently a curse and a fact of life for many. Perhaps I'd have had a happier, easier life without it - but then I wouldn't be me.

Inspiration Corner: Disney

Like many kids of the Nineties I have a deep, abiding love of Disney films. Their animated films are among the first children see, shaping their expectations of what a "movie" should be like. The finest Disney is a heady brew: adventure, romance, gobsmacking animation, a villain you can loathe and sidekicks you chuckle over. I was fortunate to grow up during the 'Disney renaissance', where the company produced a clutch of outstanding pictures that are still revered today: The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin and The Lion King. Whether The Hunchback of Notre Dame belongs to this list is a matter of dispute; it's generally agreed that Pocahontas, Hercules and Tarzan do not. (I adore Hercules despite considerable flaws).

Although nobody has drawn up the winning formula, most successful Disney films have the following ingredients in common. They're based on a story already in the public domain. (The notable exception is The Lion King, which may or may not have been ripped off from Kimba the White Lion). They have a young protagonist, often female, who feels "different" and has an indefinable sense he / she is better than their lot. (Yet many of them are royalty. Go figure). They embark on an odyssey of self discovery, befriending wacky supporting characters along the way, and incidentally piss off powerful gods / sorcerors / tools with testosterone poisoning. Despite their aspirations they usually fall for the first beef/cheesecake they meet and get married - bye, bye adventures! In the best of the old movies the process was aided by spectacular musical numbers.

Considering Disney is the first fictional universe many of us encounter, its teachings are dubious at best. Quite aside from the message that "happily ever after means heterosexuality with 2.4 kids", it actively rewards unethical behaviour. Whole storylines revolve around the lead winning another character's love - Aladdin wants Jasmine, Ariel Eric - but the fact remains they do this via magic and deception, making them little better than the villain plotting their downfall. The Beast is a special case - it seems ignorance is one of the conditions of the spell, but since Belle is smart enough to realise most castles don't have singing and dancing furniture, chances are she guessed that part too. Either way, it isn't the same as tricking someone into believing you're a completely different person.

If "lie to win her heart" isn't iffy enough, what are we to make of the equation of goodness with beauty and evil with ugliness? Our youthful hero / ine is always a good looking all American kid, regardless of setting, while the baddies tend to be older, haggard and frequently uncomfortably ethnic. Why is Jafar the only convincingly Arabic character in Aladdin (with, may I point out, one of the only authentic Arabic names)? Why is Ursula morbidly obese? Even Gaston, object of many a girlhood crush, grows progressively uglier as the film goes on. When he finally stabs the Beast his face is twisted by a deranged slasher smile, not remotely handsome. The animators may claim his "true nature is revealed", or other such guff, but what are we to make of the Queen's transformation in Snow White, when she inexplicably turns into Jimmy Savile? Her stepdaughter's dimmer than a box of spent matches - all she had to do was put on a wig or disguise her voice. For whatever murky reasons, the company couldn't show an attractive character committing murder. You can't even cite the Beast as a subversion; his reward for reforming and earning Belle's love is being made - well, less bestial?

Perhaps I'm being unfair. The stories are mainly drawn from fairy tales, which aren't exactly bastions of logic. Cinderella's prince falls instantly in love, yet doesn't recognise the ragged urchin as his dream girl until she tries on that measly slipper. Prince Philip (heh) knows Aurora's bewitched and a kiss will release her, but what about Snow White's prince? Does he habitually wander around snogging dead girls? And why the hell doesn't Ariel find a pen and paper and explain her predicament to Eric?

The scenario that really sticks in my craw is the Beast's enchantment. We don't know why he was cursed in the original, but in the film he's only a child when the malicious bitch, sorry, beautiful enchantress transforms him - for not letting a creepy old hag into his castle. If we believe all Disney characters are contemporaries, perhaps he had the cautionary tale of Snow White drummed into him. In the event, he was absolutely right not to trust her.

Indeed, why are the women in these films so goddamn petty? Only Ursula is given a valid motive: revenge on Triton for banishing her (for reasons unspecified) and to rule the ocean (go, girl!) The rest seem to be driven by vanity and / or dislike: the wicked Queen can't stand that Snow White is prettier than her (debatable); Cruella wants a fabulous winter wardrobe; Lady Tremaine gets her kicks from bullying her stepdaughter. The prize definitely goes to Maleficent, who, after not being invited to a CHRISTENING, hexes a blameless girl and the entire kingdom. Overreaction much? I'd hate to forget her birthday.

More scholarly minds than mine have noted these issues and wondered if they might actually be harmful. Some feminists believe Beauty and the Beast perpetuates the myth that an abuser can be redeemed; psychologists have pointed out that the romance arc is easily attributable to Stockholm Syndrome. The racism of the older films is painful to modern sensibilities. Although the most objectionable sequences have been excised, we still have the torture happy, lisping Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp and the jaw droppingly offensive Why Is the Red Man Red in Peter Pan. Even class doesn't get an easy ride. While a hard done by heroine might dream of a better life, and achieve it through marriage (!), hardworking and ambitious Disney males have a tendency to be evil, e.g. Jafar, Edgar in The Aristocats, Hades to some extent. Their "superiors" are usually numbskulls, making their frustration perfectly understandable.

You can tell that the company is taking the years of negative feedback on board. We're seeing varied, proactive heroines, who have more to offer than looks and viable ovaries. Frozen was a magnificent subversion of Disney's traditional values: two well rounded, interesting heroines, the "charming prince" being a sociopath and the two girls rescuing each other. Enchanted was a glittering live action send up of the most annoying tropes: falling in love in a heartbeat, housework with rodents (ugh!) and the complex physics of kiss magic. It's both hilarious and heartwarming.

You might ask why, having all these nitpicks, I continue to watch Disney films. It's precisely because I love them that I find myself pitying the hyenas or wondering what on earth will happen on Ariel and Eric's wedding night. I'm itching to write the "ever after" for a whole host of fairy tale characters - none of which would be possible if I hadn't been introduced to them by Disney.

The Hound of the Spoilervilles

I have a confession to make. I'm notorious for spoiling plot lines.

Before you boo and hiss, hear me out. I would never deliberately spoil a story, that's petty and vindictive. I get so excited about a work, so eager to share my enthusiasm, I unwittingly blurt out Major Plot Developments without thinking. A friend was once furious with me for spoiling A Certain Character Death in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. To which I felt like retorting, "It's been out for months. A true fan would've read it by now -" but no, people can be really irate about this. My other half has told me off on countless occasions.

My problem seems to be that I view stories from a writer's perspective rather than a reader/viewer's. Shocks and twists should be part of a well crafted whole - if somebody manages to sneak one past me, I'm impressed. Non writers don't enjoy fiction like this; they're there for the ride, not picking up clues at the roadside. The way they see it, a spoiler robs them of an experience forever. Think of those moments in a film where the whole cinema jumps or gasps. If somebody was sitting beside you, whispering exactly what would happen next, wouldn't you be hacked off?

Take Jurassic Park. I think it's a perfect film, and watch it on average once every year. (TV schedulers find it Christmassy for some reason). I know every trick, every line, every instance where Ian Malcolm schmoozes or Ellie Sattler is badass. It's one of the few films where CGI works triumphantly - you truly believe in T-Rex and her cronies. Yet, for all my devotion, nothing compares to the thrill of first seeing it aged eight, when I genuinely had no idea if anyone would get out alive.

Which begs the question: what is the shelf life of a spoiler? Some stories filter into the public consciousness, meaning that even if you've never read or seen the work, you have a rough idea what happens. We know Dracula isn't a harmless foreign eccentric making a real estate transaction. We know Darth Vader's interest in Luke goes beyond a villain's for an enemy. (I saw the digitally remastered Empire Strikes Back aged twelve, before the Net; I remember how flabbergasted I was. It seems inconceivable there was ever a time where That Line wasn't quoted or parodied!)

With every retelling a story gains a new following. The Lizzie Bennet Diaries worked precisely because its teenage target audience didn't know if she'd end up with Wickham or Darcy; newbies to Carmilla loved the web series as a lesbian Buffy while old fans relished all the nods to the novella.

So what do you do if something's in danger of being spoilered? Err on the side of caution: wait for the other person to say how far they've got, so they don't have you pegged as "that tool who ruined X" for the rest of their lives. Spoiling, like all bad habits, must be broken in stages. My other half's currently reading Gone, Girl; if she reaches the end without me inadvertently revealing anything, it'll be a miracle.

The Writing Life

Non writers have a romcom influenced notion of what being a writer is like. They picture an ageing, attractively dishevelled man - say, Colin Firth or Jeff Goldblum - brooding over his typewriter (yes, even in the computer age), clocking off at midday and spending the rest of the day frolicking with his quirkily monikered dog. He might give readings of his work, where identical velvet clad groupies drape themselves over him, or teach creative writing, where his mostly female students do the same. Female authors seldom feature - or, if they do, they tend to be obscenely wealthy, heavily made up crones who have regurgitated the same romance plot for forty years. Never mind that this must have taken considerable nous - she's rarely accorded the same respect as her male counterpart.

Real writers know this is bosh. The vast majority have another job to make ends meet, whether it's as a risk analyst or a barista at Starbucks. When you work full time it can be almost impossible to squeeze any writing in. You might declare week nights off limits, as you're knackered, but since your weekends are crammed with everything else you couldn't manage during the week, plus family / social engagements, days can pass before you do any actual writing. Cue guilt: how can you call yourself a writer if you can't dedicate time to your craft? Everyone knows you need to write every day in order to keep that creative muscle toned ... blah, blah, blah.

Let's clonk this particular myth on the head, shall we? Sure, you can force yourself to write a few paragraphs every day, but how do you know if they're any good? Wouldn't your time be spent more constructively cultivating other interests or catching up with friends? Your talent won't gurgle down the plug hole because, shock horror, you fancied a night off.

That said, you do need to emphasise that when you're writing you're not to be disturbed. Since it's such a solitary pastime, people are under the impression they can walk in on it, like they do with reading (grr). If you have a separate room to decamp to, great; if not, inform any interested parties you're on a roll and will only surface for food / sex / fag breaks etc. They'll soon get the message.

Once these ground rules have been established, you need to be similarly strict with yourself. Although the Net is a fantastic research tool / source of inspiration, it's also a procrastinator's paradise. We've all done it, we've all thought, "Oh, I must see what Sardonic Guy With Quiff thinks of X movie" - and, before we know it, we've viewed Sardonic Guy's back catalogue and graduated to zapping zombies with cake mix. Where possible, put all distracting gizmos to one side when writing. You can save the vlog, game etc. as a reward.

Although self publishing has taken some of the pain out of the process, other issues are alive and well. You still enter short story competitions, yearning for mainstream recognition; you still lose it when somebody on the other side of the Atlantic 'steals' your brilliant idea. You still research agents and publishing houses in the hope they'll take a chance on your book - then, reading the small print, learn they're against everything you stand for. There's the well meaning relatives who timidly suggest, "Perhaps you should do it as a hobby," or your douchey colleague who drawls, "They publish any old crap nowadays."

If writing is like anything, it's poor old Sisyphus rolling his boulder up and down the hill for all eternity. Unlike him, we're addicts, and couldn't give up if we wanted to.

On Fandom

The Internet is a funny old place. You can advertise your business, follow a news story as it breaks, look up a fact, buy and sell. You can while away hours at a time watching podcasts or playing MMORPGs. Above all, it's a breeding ground for fans.

It's difficult to remember how fandom operated in the old days. Bigger, older franchises like Doctor Who and Star Trek always held conventions, of course; fans of book series formed clubs and happily queued up at signings. Surely one of the most venerable clubs in existence is the Sherlock Holmes Society, which has been meeting up and down the country and sending members to the Reichenbach Falls since 1934. I went to an event organised by the Society when I was in my teens; it examined various aspects of the Great Detective's world, such as bee keeping (his retirement hobby), violin playing and the history of the character on film. (This was long before Sherlock or the Guy Ritchie films - I wonder what they would have thought of them). Although it was an interesting, informative evening and an alternative to mooching around the house, I don't think I would have gone regularly. And I speak as a devoted fan.

Enter t'Internet, and everything changed. Websites, discussion boards, blogs and vlogs proliferated. Anybody could start a group, provided they had the time and patience - if they used Yahoo Groups, they didn't even need knowhow. I should know, I ran an extremely active Heavenly Creatures group for 3 years, once receiving an email from Jean Guerin, the film's incarnation of "IT", aka Orson Welles. At one time I was a member of numerous different discussion boards: Tintin, Harry Potter, Buffy, His Dark Materials. For somebody who was hating their first year at uni and struggled to meet like minded people, these groups were a godsend. It didn't matter who you were or where you came from, you bonded over a mutual love of Joss Whedon or boy wizards.

It bothers me that fans get such negative press. The media typically portrays them as deranged teenage girls or unhealthy loners festering away in their basement, but ignore the fact that everyone's a fan, whether it's of their football team or Star Wars. (And, indeed, why should one interest be deemed more socially acceptable than another?) Most of us are normal, law abiding folk with functioning relationships with real live partners. While I have met people who lived and breathed their fandom to the exclusion of all else, these are thankfully a rarity and usually grow out of it.

Fan fic authors and cosplayers are the butt of many a joke, but this hardly seems fair. You've got to start writing somewhere, and what's better than a ready made, receptive audience? Strangers might not want to read your original swords and sorcery epic but they will if it's an offshoot of a beloved franchise. Even slash, its derided second cousin, has its purpose. Women have few arenas to act out their fantasies, and presumably writing favourite characters doing the wacky fulfils that need. There is still a stigma against women being aroused by gay erotica, so this allows them to explore their desires in a safe and non judgemental environment. Nor is this a recent development; people were scribbling Kirk / Spock way back in the Seventies. As for cosplayers, their talent and ingenuity is nothing short of amazing. I could never be anything other than a girl in a dopey outfit, but they can rustle up stunning Game of Thrones and Disney costumes from scratch.

In an unpredictable, often hostile world, fandom is a welcome haven. You can discuss, experiment and even fall in love. Come on, what's a better way of sussing out a would be partner than knowing they've the same taste in books or films as you? Wouldn't it be great to meet someone who didn't sneer at comics and accompanied you to conventions?

Have fun!

Rewrite, Rewind

Poor Harper Lee. After years of insistence she only has one book in her, a sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird was announced this year. The fans were ecstatic: an adult Scout! A reunion with old favourites! Yay!

Unfortunately nothing stays quiet for long in the modern world, especially where the internet is concerned. Last weekend Twitter exploded with the stupendous news: Atticus Finch, regarded as an all American hero and role model, is a racist curmudgeon in this version.

I'll admit, I was shocked and dismayed, and scuttled to the first book for reassurance. I know perfectly well it's illogical - he's not my father, and only loosely based on Lee's. It wasn't an implausible move: people's attitudes do harden as they age, and many older folks felt threatened by the civil rights movement. Atticus defends Tom Robinson because he's innocent and it's the right thing to do. Though he's liberal for his time, I doubt he would have welcomed a black son or daughter in law. (I personally don't see Scout bringing a man home, but that's neither here nor there). It may have been realistic but it was deeply disappointing.

Then you remember this was the rejected manuscript, which she never expected to resurface. While you and I might shove our faltering stories in storage and forget them, hers has been dusted off and touted as a sequel.

It's always fascinating to learn about abandoned drafts. Roald Dahl's Matilda died in a tragic accident; thankfully it was reimagined as the feminist fable it is today. In the first draft of Frozen, Elsa was a straight up villain, not even related to Anna. They realised while writing Let It Go she was a far more complex and sympathetic character, and went with this new direction. Speaking of relatives, the Skywalker family tree was nowhere near as knotty. You can still find official novels where Luke and Leia are a couple. As for the Big Reveal, this was a closely guarded secret. Even Vader's body actor didn't know - the line he delivered during filming was "Obi Wan killed your father."

No one would deny that these changes were improvements, instrumental in making these works the classics they are today. You could argue that a story belongs to whoever interprets it - if there are multiple tellings, they're each their own entity. Little Shop of Horrors started life as a creature feature spoof; it was adapted into a hit musical, which recast the screwball plot as a tragedy. The musical in turn was adapted for the screen - but the test audience hated the apocalyptic ending, where Seymour feeds Audrey to the malevolent plant and everybody dies. Perhaps Rick Moranis is too nebbishy and cuddly to be devoured; his Seymour is certainly less culpable. Whatever the reason, they opted for a conventional happy ending, which has practically displaced the original. Fans of the show might gnash their teeth, but the producers went with what felt right for that version.

When you write, you must always be receptive to constructive criticism. I can't comment on Go Set a Watchman, not having read it yet, but by following her publisher's advice and making Tom Robinson's trial the focus, Lee created a story loved by generations of readers. Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes to help a work realise its full potential.

How I Became a Writer

Every interview with an author features the big question: "Why are you a writer?" For the record, it should be a 'how' rather than a 'why' - it's not as though we're bitten by a radioactive insect and decide to embark upon this isolated, frustrating but wonderful career. So here's my how rather than why.

I was seven years old. My parents were going through a particularly acrimonious breakup. My father was a narcissist who viewed my sister and I as weapons to hurt my mum. I haven't the heart to recount the vile things he said and did. Suffice to say, I spent much of my childhood in therapy.

I was a hellcat in those days. I was anti authoritarian and anti religion even as a child; I practically lived outside the headmaster's office. I hadn't been diagnosed as dyspraxic yet, so my poor social skills and constant state of simmer were a source of misery and confusion, especially to Mum. She must have wondered how she had produced Jane - a model pupil who was never in trouble - and this anarchic hoyden. I might have served as a billboard for the dismal effects of a broken home. My teachers had already written me off.

Then we were given the assignment. Who knows why it affected me so powerfully. Perhaps it's because we were asked to be creative - our previous essays had been along the lines of "Describe your last holiday", or, at a stretch, "You're in the Roman army. How do you feel?" (I still smart at being told the sentence, 'Me, the army and the elephants' didn't make sense. Perhaps that explains my loathing of Write Your Own History tasks). Mrs O'Brien only had two directives: we could write about whatever we liked and it had to be original.

I suspect that if I read 'In the Haunted House' today, I'd die of embarrassment. Probably Mum has it stashed away somewhere. At the time it was the most joyful thing I had done. Drawing upon Roald Dahl, my favourite writer, and illustrated by Jane, it ran to twenty eight pages. The scene with the giant spider was agreed to be the highlight.

The effect of this project - which I'd loved doing - was astounding. It was read aloud to the other classes; even old enemies on the staff congratulated me. My thoughts were reeling. I could get this much praise from writing a story? Had I found something I was actually good at?

They say music can soothe the savage beast. I wouldn't know - I'm virtually tone deaf. But writing changed me from an underachieving ankle biter to someone with a passion, a vocation.

Some creations were more durable than others. Gloria the genie (a drag queen before I'd even seen one) was blasted for continually using the word 'frigging', which I innocently thought meant 'very'. I asked what it meant and my teacher refused to tell me. Ziggy, my beloved imaginary dragon friend, appeared in every format from diaries to scripts. There were comics, plays, rock operas (blame Andrew Lloyd Webber) and half written books. I managed to finish two, So Faithful a Follower and The Fortnum Files. They were both sent to publishers.

With fourteen years' distance I can see they made the right decision. Who'd publish something by a half formed teenager? (It didn't help that The Fortnum Files, a vehicle for Ziggy, had gone to a press that specialised in erotica). But at fifteen I had no sense of perspective and a humongous ego. I'd swing between thinking they were cowboys with no appreciation of my genius (!) to lamenting my lost talent, and planning to bid it farewell in a symbolic ceremony. I was a pretentious little git.

When I learned you could study creative writing at uni, I was stunned. I immediately applied to the two that provided it, Warwick and Lancaster. Warwick was a no go - I hadn't passed my Maths GCSE at that point - but Lancaster made a provisional offer for 3 Bs.

The rest is history.