I wrote my first book at the age of ten. It was a picture book about aliens, which were the only creatures I could draw.
Many years later, after completing school, a Bachelor of Laws and a few years in a legal firm, the writing bug bit again. Not a picture book this time, but a crime thriller set in a legal firm not unlike the one where I worked. With characters not unlike the people I encountered every day. Wisdom being the better part of valor, and multiple defamation suits a very real concern, I didn't pursue that work further than the first few chapters. Regrettably, the fictional murder of ... (well, I’d better not say) remains unsolved to this day. I then turned my thoughts to stories that were less likely
to result in a garnishee over my wages for many years to come. My first love, Regency historicals.
More time passed in fevered scribbling before my long-suffering husband suggested I might consider giving up work and writing full-time. Angels broke out in a chorus, manna dropped from Heaven and I remembered why I had married this absolute gem of a man in the first place. Still, it took many months before I gathered the courage to take the plunge. I free-fell into the vast void of structureless days, where tailored suits and stockings were no longer required dress and the only rule of thumb was to be out of my pyjamas by 10am.
Four years and one point five children later, I still live by that rule.
