Soon after I was old enough to walk and talk, my parents realised two things.
The first was that I had an incredibly vivid imagination. Unlike many small children, I was content to spend hours at a time amusing myself, inventing ever more dramatic games of kidnap, runaway orphans and wicked stepmothers. When I wasn’t playing, I could often be found listening to an audio book, Roald Dahl or my favourite Enid Blyton, becoming lost in the tales woven by others. Even as a child, I cherished a dream that one day I would be a writer myself.
