When I first decided to get serious about writing, I had this lovely vision of me sitting on the beach, or in front of a log fire, or huddled into the corner of a country pub, scribbling into a well-worn but totally classy leather-bound notepad. And that would be my life as a writer.
Or so I thought.
The reality is somewhat different. Less peaceful. Nowhere near so self-indulgent.
But for all that, this real writing life is in its own way just as stimulating and exciting as the one I once fantasised about. Just different. Definitely different.
How have you found your writing journey so far? Did it live up to the early dream, or even surpass it?