I’ve been writing for as long as I could a hold a pen, could put fingers to keyboard.  During my long golden days in Norwich, creating worlds in the evenings and swinging swords at weekends, I drew myself a dream – two-and-a-half 250,000 word novels still languish on my little USB key, unread by any but my friends.

At 30, when I came to London and traded my imagination for mortgage, career and family, I stopped writing.  I didn’t mean to – my life just caught me up.

And, God, have I missed it.

I’ve missed the passion, the creation, the outlet; I’ve missed the frustration and the achievement.  I’ve missed my Memory Palace, my Castle in the Air.

A couple of years ago, I returned to my wonder with adult eyes.  I can write, I’ve never doubted that – but my moments of ardour, visualisation and genuine skill I found tied to a sketchy plot-line that’s in dire need of some attention.

So I’ve given it some.

In your twenties, footloose and responsibility-free, it’s easy to abandon yourself to your own creativity – something that’s bloody impossible when you’re a working mum.  In the last two years, re-training my atrophied muscles has been a tortuous and painful experience – but an invigorating one, like the feeling returning to a limb.  Slowly, slowly, I’m dragging a part of my life that I’d boxed in the attic back down into the light.

So, this is the beginning of my rewrite. Many of the characters and concepts in it are 15 years old, created with or by my Norwich Vike wrecking crew. Science Fiction and Fantasy have caught them and surged ahead of them since I last had time to write - it's now up to me to make up that distance.

If you got this far, then thank you for taking the time - and I welcome your feedback. Please feel free to email me by clicking here or leave comments on my blog.

Danacea