Feline Dream

I used to write. When I was at school I had notebooks overflowing with teenage angst ridden poetry, sections from novels never completed and cliched short stories. My notebooks went everywhere with me and I would spend hours a day pouring both head and heart onto the paper. I would never claim to be an outstanding writer but I enjoyed it. University changed that for me. Studying literature meant that the hours I spent crafting were quickly taken over by pulling apart the work of others. I lost the motivation for creating anything of my own and so I ceased to write fiction. Academic writing took over and after I completed my undergraduate degree I undertook postgraduate research. My MPhil ended 7 years ago but the urge to write never returned. As the PhD rapidly approaches I’m becoming excited about the reading and the research but the writing terrifies me. 

Now I teach young people how to write. I expose them to a variety of literature; from bog standard school faire like Of Mice and Men and Romeo and Juliet, to less well travelled (in a secondary school context) work such as Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory and an array of graphic novels. I guide them through a maze of vocabulary, grammar and literary techniques while urging them to avoid pitfalls which, too frequently, pepper my own writing.

Today I am asking myself if I am really qualified to do this?