Three years into my English literature, journalism and creative writing degree and I have come to the realisation that I don’t have all that much experience under my belt outside of university assignments and the plethora of unfinished ‘books’ that I wrote on the ancient family desktop computer when I came home from primary school each day.
I’ve always loved writing. I was really that kid that reminded my teacher at the end of the day that she had forgotten to give out the homework she promised (I wish that was a joke). I own more books than you could count, so many that there is an honest-to-god crack on my living room ceiling directly below where my bookcase sits in my bedroom. That’s because I haven’t just filled the shelves, but also created a makeshift one on top and surrounded the floor around it in extra little piles. then there is a pile on each of the bedside cabinets on either side of my bed, one in probably every handbag I own, some more randomly dotted around my room, and did I mention I live in the great city of Glasgow for university and have more here too? I think you get the point I am trying to make here.
I actually recently found a sheet of paper in my cupboard signed Holly, age 7 from the time I started my own newspaper. I called it The Holly Gazset (creative and spelled well) and spent the whole one page detailing how mummy and daddy and Lewis (my brother) must pay real money for this, it can’t be pretend money, it has to be actual money, instead of reporting any real news. God loves a trier.