After seven months travelling the world, I decided that I was going to write fiction. I wasn’t going back to ‘real’ work, but would pursue a dream which had been hiding – mostly patiently – at the back of my mind for decades.

There was only one problem, and it was a big one. I hadn’t written a word of ‘story’ in my life. I didn’t even have a clue how to punctuate dialogue; I’d never had a reason to learn.

I subsequently learnt that my total lack of any form of creative writing experience was not the only obstacle in my way and, as it turned out, it wasn’t even slightly the biggest one.

But, as I sat looking at an empty screen in borrowed accommodation, the idea of ‘jumping off that cliff’ filled me with loneliness and dread. How could I possibly expose my inner thoughts and feelings to other people? How could I even expose them to myself?

I had an idea for a book. One short paragraph was all there was. How did that become a three hundred page novel?

The one common thread which continued to run through all of my thoughts was the ridiculousness of the whole idea. Who was I to believe that I could step over into the realm of creativity after a lifetime spent as an engineer and a businessman? What arrogant blindness had possessed me? What untrammelled hubris?

For many people, education and career choices are guided by chance events or rushed advice based on a few exam results achieved whilst still a child. Maybe there are family influences – paths to follow, paths to avoid – but, whatever the process, it’s normally an ill-informed lottery.

I have no complaints and have loved whatever I’ve done and the people I’ve met around the world. Just at that moment, however, it would have been nice to have tried something creative in my former life. Just once.

—————————-

Mobile phone reception was terrible where I was staying and I needed to make a call. Leaving the empty screen behind me, I walked out to the corner of the garden where there was a hint of a signal.

It was early April and I stood by a young apple tree as I made the call. The first buds were showing, pink and white in the weak spring sun and I had time to examine them carefully as I listened to ten minutes of scratchy on-hold music.

Maybe I should start by practicing description? It was as good a place to start as any.

And so, when I sat myself down again in front of the empty screen, I tried to use words to express the beauty of a simple, unopened apple blossom. I’m not sure how successful I was, either  with the words or the description, but what happened next was a revelation.

The apple blossom led to a tree, which led to more trees, which grew into an orchard and, deep within the orchard a table appeared. a table growing with the debris of a long lunch, an Easter lunch, a family Easter lunch. And then, one by one, my core characters appeared, sitting around the table, drunk, happy, worried, proud or excited, unaware of my presence as their loves and lives began to reveal themselves to me.

That was a beginning.