When I was 7 years old, my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I replied with two words; two words that perhaps on some unfathomable, subconscious level would determine my fate for the rest of my life. Ten years later, here I am; a goofy, English writer, living to make dreams come true, in the form of fine literature. The path to today was not so straight forward, though. It was dark, and winding, and on some days, I thought it would never cease. Ever since I was young, growing up in a world seemingly full of so much pain and suffering, my inevitable dream was to save people; to help those in need.
Throughout my live I’ve aspired to pursue all sorts of professions; from scientist, to doctor, to royal marine. However, as I got older, I came to the realisation that there is another way to save people; perhaps one of the most delicate procedures of all – writing. As the extraordinary Virginia Woolfe once said, ‘books are the mirrors of the soul’, and when I write, I do it not just for myself and for my dreams, but for those in the world that seek solace and hope and characters who are not just entirely unique in every way, but also unequivocally relatable.
‘Depression may rain down on me like a hail of bullets that promises to prevail, fear may even strive to drown me – day in, day out, like the shore of a merciless sea; and perhaps I will always be asunder these dark clouds of pain and sorrow, but I will cry in the rain no more; for I have learnt to dance in it instead – and I will do so for the rest of time. Even better, I know that I won’t be dancing alone.’ – The Book Man of New Orleans