I used to write books when I was a child. Sometimes I would use the cardboard of a chocolate cigarette packet or similar and give it a proper cover. I had no idea what I was doing, but it was fun. I remember getting a typewriter one Christmas, it was plastic, and orange and white, and lightweight, and it was the most awesome thing I’d ever seen. Tap, tap, tap, tappity tap. ‘This is fun. I don’t feel obliged to try to draw a picture.’ (I can’t draw for peanuts! Even my stick figures are dodgy.)
I wrote stories without even thinking about them. The words would flow from my brain to my fingers, almost unconsciously. Touch typing, writing in cursive, or slowly and neatly. Thinking about it now, it’s a bit like being “possessed” really. In the series of books I’ve released, the characters in the story became “real” to me and they have their own agenda, their own personality and the story has a natural progression based on who they are and where they’ve been. It’s a very strange experience to try to analyse. How can people I imagined become real and take over my book? This isn’t the story I started with. Who are these people? And they keep meeting more people. People who have names and faces and their own personalities.
I think, as authors, maybe we’re crazy. And that’s a good thing.