I Didn’t Grow Up with Books — So Why Am I Writing Them?

Here’s a confession that surprises a lot of people: I didn’t really read books as a kid.

Den building in the woods - though these are not to my old quality!

I wasn’t the sort of child who curled up with a novel under the covers. I was the sort who climbed trees, fell out of them, climbed them again, and only came home when the streetlights flickered on. I wasn’t disinterested in stories, I just preferred the ones I was living. The ones where the garden shed became a pirate ship, or a rock in the woods marked the entrance to a secret world (probably filled with dragons, or at least badgers with attitude). Or if rain stopped play, well it didn't stop play. Then the Britain's Farm tractor came out, or the Matchbox cars.

I liked comics; The Beano, of course, and Whizzer and Chips. I liked the tele (those were the days of great Saturday morning cartoons). I liked making things up. But sit still with a book? Not likely.

As an adult, I’m picky about what I read. I don’t force myself through “should reads” or anything that feels like homework. If a book doesn’t grip me, it goes back on the shelf, no hard feelings. Life’s short, and there are trees to climb. (Metaphorically. These days I’d need a ladder and a good insurance policy.)

So why am I now compelled to write stories?

Because stories still happen to me, and they won’t leave me alone until I do something with them. They creep in while I’m running, or whisper lines in my head while I’m half-asleep. A strange sound in the woods becomes a plot twist. A suspicious goose becomes a side character. A throwaway comment from a stranger becomes the heart of a poem.

I don’t write because I’ve always loved books. I write because my brain has always been full of stories, even if, for a long time, I didn’t realise that’s what they were.

And maybe that’s what makes my writing a bit… odd.

I’m not writing to follow the rules. I didn’t learn stories by analysing structure or reading the canon. I learned them by living them, by making up adventures, jumping into rivers, and wondering what was really hiding in the shadows behind the shed.

Now, I write for people like me. Readers who need a story to grab them. Who want mystery, surprise, and a bit of a wink. Kids who’d rather run outside than sit in a library (but might secretly love a tale with monsters, mayhem, and biscuits). Adults who don’t read as much as they’d like to, but want something that hooks them straight away, no filler.

So no, I wasn’t raised on books. But I was raised on curiosity and imagination. And that, it turns out, was the start of everything.