I received a beautiful leather bound, lined notebook for my Christmas last year and I decided I would fill it with observations, poetry and short stories.
Of course, it’s lay in a drawer ever since, but at the weekend I stumbled across it and decided to fill the blank pages.
I used to love writing at school and my English teacher thought I had a bit of a talent at poetry. I even considered going to university to study English Literature, but life and jobs got in the way.
Over the years I have tinkered with poetry and I even went to college evening classes in creative writing for a while, but you must be dedicated to the cause and I am easily distracted by the TV, piles of washing or a bottle of wine.
Now my only creative outlet is writing this column each week, usually done in a rush a few minutes before deadline.
So finding this leather bound notebook inspired me to sit down last Saturday evening with the television off.
I got my ‘good pens’ at the ready and worked on my prose, writing about a funny incident on the train.
I embellished the scenario, as I tend to do with every story I tell, adding more characters and back stories and before I knew it. I’d filled 20 pages of my book.
I really enjoyed writing just for me and repeated the process on Sunday evening too. Now I was creating whole new characters and the action had moved from the train to a Falkirk pub.
While I’m pretty sure my scribblings aren’t Pulitzer Prize winning stuff, it’s entertaining me and helps prevent the mind rot that comes from watching my soaps and reality programmes.
However, I made a grave error and left my notebook on my desk during the week - in a prime location for a nosey daughter to spot.
“What is this?” she asked.
I mumbled about it just being for fun, but Emma read it anyway.
She told me it was really good, and had the making of a good beach read.
Her positive encouragement was a boost and I think I will keep going on my novel.
After all there is a book in everyone as they say.
“But mum” said Emma “you need to change the character of Mel, it’s clearly written about me.”
Foiled! Well you can only write what you know after all!