I knew I would be a writer from at least from the age of eight years. That was when I started scribbling stories and poems on pages that I hid under my pillow I sewed books together from the pages and kept them like at treasure trove. I was just reading that Emily Dickinson also sewed own collections of own poems stitching the spines and making the whole. It was only after she died that these collections of poems were recognised by the outside world. I have never felt able to wait that long.
In my teen years I remained certain that I wanted to be a writer but how, I thought , was that possible? I lived a little northern town in a little two bedroomed house on the little street which had a library at the end. I had no urban or even suburban networks, no contacts, no fellow writers around me. And I had virtually no readers around me except the librarians in the little library at the end of the street. The teachers in my grammar school did not seem like readers at all.
And what would I write? At the time there seemed to be nothing in my life interesting enough to write about. I felt then that I would have to be much older to have the material to write.- to have seen more done more, read more, visited more museums more cities at home and more countries abroad
Little did I know then but, in later years much of my writing and many of my stories would spring out of the fundamentally inspirations of those years in the little house in the little street with the little library at the end.
But still as a teenager I kept writing, covering the pages in biro and making little books. In time I became a teacher and then a teacher-educator. As well as working in schools and having a family, for period of four years I wrote a weekly column for the magisterial Northern Echo. Then, while still teaching, I wrote a children’s novel called Theft. And then another children’s book called The Real Life of Studs McGuire. For the list of these and all my other novels hit the Wendy Robertson’s Publications tab on the header/
It was when these novels were published by a major publisher that the small miracle happened. I was transformed totally from a teacher who happened to write, to a writer who happened to teach. In time I got to leave the increasingly complex although enjoyable profession of teaching and join the equally demanding, although solitary ,profession of the professional writer.
It was a great day when I got to write the word Writer in the space allotted to Occupation on my subsequently much used passport