For forty years or so, I have admired the authors that stare down from my shelves. I have marveled at their ability and have fantasised over seeing my name on the spines of their books. The idea that I might actually be able to write a book of my own has therefore been a slow but logical progression from the above.
I suppose that doesn't actually say why I want to write! You may well ask why I don't just carry on collecting books, or open a bookshop, or become a book publisher? The answer is easy. Deep within me is an urge to write. An urge which made its presence known years ago and was partially sated by scientific studies and later business activities. However, it is no longer so easily placated. Over the past few years it has slowly grown. No longer simply an "inner itch", it now gnaws away and will not be ignored. It has become a burning desire. It is now so strong that it feels impossible to do anything other than let events take their course. I make no apologies if that sounds melodramatic. It is exactly how I feel.
My ambition is simple in its concept. I wish to have a well-written book of fiction published so that it can sit alongside those great names and I can allow myself the delusion that I have joined their club.
I'll let you know when I have been granted membership.
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