By the age of twelve, my writing career was assured, thanks to a diet of grandma’s James Bond books and Horror anthologies. At school I spewed stories of adventurers and vampires. I grew up to become an accountant.
But thanks to Create 50 I’m back on track. Now my outpourings are unbalanced, improper and irrational. And of course they’re always in the red. Blood red.
Imagine a twelve-year-old girl exiled to deepest, dankest Manchester, unknowingly about to be presented to endless relatives offering tinned salmon and peaches, existing instead on blackcurrant jam sandwiches… Then imagine her in that foreign land, staying in a tiny bedroom, which was crammed full of books packed with the most wonderful things; especially a large