Sometimes I think that I am writing my novels decades too late. When I was young, and first writing, there were opportunities but I turned them down in favour of a career in healthcare, and so, my pen became my hobby. A few years and several house moves later, during which my stored work was culled to make space for other household items, and I realise that amongst those discarded pages were probably some of my finest writing. The newness of each life experience was captured in the words of that era; a time before we spoke openly and freely about sex, drugs and emotions with our parents. How I wish that I had saved those scribblings so that I could now savour those moments in time. Now I suspect that my mind is too full of experience to write with the naive power of that young girl.