My perimenopausal memory must be totally shot because I can’t for the life of me remember what made me want to write my first manuscript. I’ve always loved to read but, unlike many writers, I don’t recall a childhood dream of becoming an author.
The motivation may be long forgotten, but what I do remember is writing a novel manuscript in my twenties and how excited I was to send it off to three agents. They all rejected me – I’d come home to an envelope on the doormat, addressed in my own handwriting and affixed with stamps I’d paid for myself, and know instantly it was a no. Triple ouch. Eventually the floppy disk went in a drawer and I concentrated
