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The Stepping Stones To Becoming A writer

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Rise

Rise

When I finished reading all the YA I could get my hands on, I wondered if I could write anything that could create those feelings in another.

 

It’s funny when I think back to the stepping stones that led me to becoming a writer. It should have been obvious from the start that I was always going to become one, yet for years I searched for it. I always had a deep seated need to be my own boss. I knew that whatever I was going to do, needed to be unique, creative and inventive. I also knew that I needed to produce something that was truly mine, something I could call my own. The question was what?

 

I wasted a lot of time looking for the outlet that was going to lead me to my future accomplishment. Singing on the X-Factor was popular, but completely out of the question, as I am tone deaf. I’m not exactly sporty; in fact after running a mile, I’m more incline to collapse than run a victory lap, so I needed to look for something else. I needed to look for some special quality or skill, but I also needed to make a living, so I had to dig deep and start thinking outside of the box.

 

I have to admit that for years I was lost, because I’m nobody special. I’m just as ordinary as the next person. I knew that I had always been a creative. I’d always enjoyed all forms of art and was of a reasonable standard when I was younger, but I had turned my back on it when I left school, writing it off as a hobby, rather than something I could make an income from and never considered writing to be an art form.

 

My best friend at school, Anne, once told me out of the blue, that she always admired my writing. I remember choosing my A-Level subjects and being stuck for my forth choice. I walked around all the stalls as students do and in the end picked English Literature. I had no particular compulsion attracting me to it, I hadn’t bought into the subject at GCSE, but simply needed a fourth, it meant that I could read books and I remembered what Anne had said. In the end it was my best subject. I found an affinity with it that was unparalleled. I answered every question first and took the lead on every discussion in class. I was a natural, I understood the characters, the writer’s inner workings, the subtle symbolism and the motives behind their characterisations. I didn’t have to think about it, it was as clear to me, as if I had written it myself. I had the ability to read between the lines. I had found my subject. It was the first time I had really felt accomplishment, but life caught up with me as life does and took me in a new direction leaving English behind.

 

As time went by, nothing presented itself as a particular talent. I had long since put my success with English behind me, so I was amiss, until I linked a number of random events that had occurred throughout my life. These led me to picking up a computer and making a start. Who knows what makes us suddenly sit up one day and make the connection we’ve been trying to make for a life time. Maybe there is no answer, but for me, it all started when my colleague, Elaine, came into the office one day and raised the question, ‘If you could be anything you wanted to be, what would you be?’ I remember sitting at my desk, up to my neck in work, having one of my usual stressful days and without a moment’s hesitation replying, “A writer.” It wasn’t something I considered before replying. It just rolled off my tongue. I hadn’t even put pen to paper at that point, but there it was, it was out there. I was busy and the conversation ran its course, so I forgot all about it and went back to work, but these words must have come from somewhere, and they certainly lodged themselves somewhere more available.

 

So not much changed in my life. I went about my usual daily routine, working full time at a school and raising a family, with many more little events happening along the way. I changed my job at the school and writing became more of a feature in my role. I wrote a report for a colleague – Tucker, who read it, immediately passing comment on how well it had been written. Again, I didn’t think anything particular about it, I’d just completed a task that he’d asked me to do. I had previously worked with many English teachers, but I particularly remembered Mrs Basic’s classes. Her work really struck a chord with me, but again I still hadn’t made any connections.

 

We had an old computer that a friend gave me. It had a big bulky tower and was set up in an awkward place, but one day I had an urge to have a go at writing something. Another random thought that popped into my head. I wondered if I could do it and the compulsion to do it felt really strong. The kids were occupied and I had some time, so I sat and wrote a couple of pages. I started striking the key, instantly finding a story line. It was the weirdest thing, but it felt natural and comfortable. It all got interrupted and I never went back to it. Soon after, the computer died and that was that.

 

The next, more significant event that took place was when I noticed my daughter was reading a book that everyone on the bus was reading, and all the kids at school. With my motherly curiosity taking president, I wanted to know what my then teenage daughter was reading, so I asked her. She told me about it and offered to lend it to me. At the time I had a busy career and no spare time to indulge in reading, so when she offered to let me read it, I immediately regretted it, because it was the size of a catalogue. I didn’t want to let her down, as she had so adeptly plugged the book and I wanted to ensure that what she was reading was appropriate, as she had already started the second, so I took it. At first I decided to just read enough to get a feel for the story, see if it was suitable and slip it back into her room, telling her I’d read it, but I reach a point which hooked me to the point I almost missed my bus stop. I remember hurtling down the bus, shouting at the driver. Something inside me unlocked, something I couldn’t explain. The book was Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. I have a lot to be grateful to Stephenie for, she was the humble beginning of all the dots lining up.

 

I read the whole Twilight series in 3 weeks, which was a record for me, discovering that reading YA books was quite appealing. It reminded me of all those raw emotions felt as a teenager that are lost over time, as our careers and daily grind beat them out of us. When I finished the series, I went to my daughter to see what else she was reading, looking to evoke the feelings that had been stirred up inside me. She was heavily into L.J. Smith at the time, so I started reading her novels. I went looking for more of her work and came across the Vampire Diaries. I tore through the series. When I reached the end of book 7, I put it down and wondered what I should read next, because I had read everything she had wrote in the series up to that point and was hungry for the next one, but knew that I had to wait. The thought occurred to me that maybe I could have a go at writing myself. I wondered if I could write anything that could create those feelings in another. Again, being a practical person, I brushed the momentary thought aside and went about my usual business. Later that month, I had an unusual dream.

 

At this point you may be reading this, shaking your head and thinking what’s unusual about that. There are two things that were unusual for me. Firstly, I know that I dream, everybody does, but I very rarely remember them or know that I have. Secondly, on the rare occasion that I do realise I’ve had a dream, I remember it for all of 30 seconds, often forgetting the finer points, like everyone else. However, this dream was different.

 

On a handful of occasions in my life, I’ve had dreams that have been so profound, they have not only stayed with me, but it have marked a significant point in my life. These dreams I can still see when I close my eyes today. I can recount them at will and they never go away. This was one of them and it came with an over whelming need to write. I woke up with what I can only describe as a charge inside me. It was like electricity and it surged through me, looking to expel itself. What everyone else could see, suddenly occurred to me. Had I found my talent? And could I make it work?

 

I still relive the emotions of having to wait for the right time to try writing again. The burst of excitement within me was all the more concentrated for waiting. I finally found my opportunity one August afternoon in 2010. Everything fell into place that day, my son was out playing football and my daughter was hitting the books for her GCSE’s, so I borrowed my daughter’s laptop and headed down to the bottom of the garden. I can still feel the butterflies today. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket on a windy day. One false move and the whole thing could be a disaster, but I opened a word document and began typing. I wrote the opening chapter to Hidden and never looked back. Today, I am in the process of publishing that very same book. I have two more books at various stages of completion and already know that there will be at least another two books in the saga.

 

It’s funny where humble beginnings can take us. Who could have imagined, when I was my children’s age that today I would be a writer and author? To this day, I have not stopped writing, whether it has been something for one of my books, or something toward marketing the saga. It just took one or two stepping stones and a bit of realisation that my talent was there all along. I just never put my finger on it.

 

Serina Hartwell – Author of The HiddenSaga

http://www.amazon.com/Serina-Hartwell/e/B00JOOKH06/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

 

 

Thank you for taking the time out to read my blog. Don’t forget to follow me and tell a friend. Why not leave me your thoughts or a good review? I have a new website available at – http://www.serinahartwell.com

 

 

The Highs and the Lows of Being a New Writer

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Where the magic happens

Where the magic happens

Nobody told me when I started this whole pursuit, just how hard the journey was going to be.

The worse thing about being new to any job is that you don’t know where anything lives. You spend most of your first week, looking through cupboards and bothering your colleagues with questions like, “where do I find…?” and “where does this go?” Your colleagues tend to have the good grace to help you out, because they know that you are new and it’s only a temporary phase, while you establish yourself into the firm. However, becoming a new writer is totally different. You are self-employed, so there isn’t anyone to ask. You have a thousand questions, but no one is going to line up with the answers, so you have to find the answers to them yourself.

Writing can be very lonely at times. You spend a great deal of your time on your own, in your office space, just writing or blogging. Your work can take so much of your time and energy that after a productive writing session, it isn’t unheard of, to look at the clock and realise that there isn’t anyone to socialise with anyway, because it’s too late and almost time for dinner, or your friend’s/family’s lunch break is over, or even it’s time for bed. The combination of all of these factors can lead to a tremendous amount of lows, which you have to manage yourself. There isn’t anyone going to blow a dinner bell whistle, nor call clocking out time, if you miss a break and work through, there is no one there to acknowledge it and serve you with praise. It’s simply you and your writing, however, as negative as all that sounds, and it has to be said, because it is a reality of the business. When you finally reach a writing goal however, you could walk on the clouds and dance in the heavens. The highs are always so much higher than the lows could ever be. So, like an addiction, we keep writing, looking for our next pinnacle to lift us up into the clouds.

I have spoken with many people about the fact that I am an author. It’s funny how varied the reactions can be. I have spoken to people who have ignored the whole subject and changed the topic immediately. Some people have been in awe of what I do, which is lovely and a nice lift for my ego, but I can’t help thinking that I am just as ordinary as the next person. Other people come at me from a different angle. They have often bought into the chocolate box imagery associated with the comedy sketches of years gone by, where comedians would portray well known writers eating chocolates while having an overworked typist in the corner, typing away at some break neck speed, to keep up with the author’s dictation, while the author lays on a couch eating chocolates. Apparently, that’s what I do. On these occasions, I have to admit to thinking to myself, “I wish. If only…”  These people are not aware of the all-nighters that I pull to get a chapter or a storyline finished, or the fact that I could have spent a couple of weeks just building a website, to get my brand out into the wider community. Speaking of which… Nobody told me when I started this whole pursuit, just how hard the journey was going to be.

When I originally started this whole writing malarkey, I had no idea that my writing journey was going to take me to the places that it has, or be so complicated. Originally, when I was ignorant to the journey, I thought I would just write a book, place it in an envelope and pop it in the post and the rest would be history. A contract would land on my carpet from a publisher and in would roll loads of money, making the whole thing worthwhile. I would be compensated for all the hours of hard work done after I finished my day, at my full time job, which was out of town, for working late into the night and giving up all my evenings, weekends and holidays, to get my manuscript finished. Yes, that’s more of that stereotyping, working its way into my ignorance. It is right that I do work all my evenings, weekends and holidays. I miss nights out, relaxation, just picking a book up for a relaxing read is a thing of the past, and if I do have to attend events, then I have to fit them in.

My daughter has a new question she asks of her dad, but within ear shot of me, to make a point and that is, “has mum made a nest again?” This is because ever since she has been at university, I have been writing seriously, with the intention of making it my full time career, and all she has seen is me writing in the back of the car, while en-route to picking her up, or dropping her off. I have to admit that when I stand back and take an outsider’s view of what I do, it does sort of look like a nest. I’ll often be sat in the back of our beaten up, old, failing car, with my laptop, and my little exercise book, pen and torch for when the battery dies on my laptop and I can’t write on it any longer. I also have a good book to read, to go with my torch for when I end up over tired and inspiration leaves me, or I just need to chill a little, so yes, I can see where she is coming from. It’s like anything else though, if you want to be a success, you have to work really hard at it. This is how my parents brought me up and so far, it has proved to be the right advice.

The journey has been much harder though, than I ever anticipated. I did everything in the book to the best of my ability. I followed every piece of advice that made sense to me. I bought a copy of the Writers’ & Artists’ Year Book and worked my way through that, sending my manuscript off to all the publishers in the UK, who published my genre. I spent a fortune on postage, envelopes and printing, only to have ALL of them returned to me. I had followed the rules and looked for whether each company was accepting submissions, I’d looked at their submission guidelines and written a synopsis and covering letter attune to what they were each individually asking for. I tried to get an agent, but couldn’t, I emailed my manuscript, where that was their criteria and spent the majority of 2012 and 2013 been rejected by every company. The returns were very polite, wishing me luck in my venture, but politely telling me that because I didn’t have an agent, they wouldn’t even read my manuscript. This business is tough.

You have to have a very thick skin to be part of this business, or decide to self-publish and take your chances. The problem with that is that every man and his dog are all doing the same thing. It would seem that since the recession made unemployment nearer the norm than employment, everyone has turned to writing that novel they’ve been putting off, and looking for a new way forward. This means that getting a novel out there is going to be almost impossible, if you don’t know how to promote it. So I go back to my original statement – Nobody told me when I started this whole pursuit, just how hard the journey was going to be.

Nobody said to me, when I sat at the bottom of my garden, with my rose-tinted glasses on, do you know that when you’ve finished writing your book, you are going to have to go off shore, over to America, to get published, because your own community won’t even read it. They didn’t tell me about the loneliness of writing, they didn’t share the fact that I would have to learn to write to a standard that was high enough to be accepted by my publisher. No body relayed the fact that I would have to build a website and join numerous writing communities, just to stay afloat, but do you know what? It’s all worth it! Every last up and down. Every high, every low, because I wrote something that I could share with the world. Something that has the potential to outlast me, if I can get it off the ground, and there are not many people who can say that.

Writing has been the most incredible journey of my life after motherhood. It hasn’t been easy, but it has been my saviour. It has shown me that I can do far more than I ever thought I was able to. I have gained so many skills over the last three and a half years that I sometimes I have to sit myself down and remind myself that it is me doing it. You see the advantage of being self-employed and not having anyone to ask about anything, is that it serves as a catalyst for finding things out yourself and that always leads to you learning far more than if someone just spoon-feeds you the answers.

Would I recommend becoming a writer? Yes and no. The answer lies deep inside the individual asking the question. It’s not as easy as it looks. I would say that it is far more difficult than the full time job, I currently make my living at, and I don’t have an easy job. Only the person asking the question can decide whether they are tough enough to take on the industry and tough it out, just to get a foot on the ladder, with no guarantees or promises. To face rejection from the industry and critique from non-writer, who can destroy your writing career as look at you. If you’re not up to this, then my answer would be – no. Don’t pick up your pen. However, if you are still not fazed by this and the writing is erupting out of you, regardless then it’s time to take up the challenge and enjoy the ride of your life.

 

Serina Hartwell – Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

Thank you for taking the time out to read my blog. Don’t forget to follow me and tell a friend. Why not leave me your thoughts or a good review? I have a new website available at – http://www.serinahartwell.com

What Made Me a Writer – Writing in Secret

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Serina Hartwell - Author

Serina Hartwell – Author

The need to write was getting stronger, all the while – I couldn’t deny it any longer.

Once I had discovered that I could write, it was like Christmas day, every day. Suddenly, I was making great progress and I could see my achievement across my page. Naturally the first thing I wanted to do was to share my new discovery with my fiancé, Matt, so I did. We left the house one evening, shortly after my discovery and walked up to our local pub for a drink without the kids. Life for us was already starting to change as our children were growing up and becoming independent of us, we could finally do a simple thing like that, without getting a babysitter, something that had always been in short supply when the kids were little. So with our new found freedom we took a trip out of the house for an hour.

I remember walking up our very steep hill, struggling to keep up with him and bursting with the excitement of my news. I couldn’t wait to get there to tell him, because I knew that what I had discovered was life changing. I had a new beginning, something to pick me up out of the rut I had found myself in. So off we went and soon arrived. We bought our drink and found a nice secluded spot in the bar area and I couldn’t wait any longer. Out the question, “How would you feel if I became a writer?” poured. I looked at him, searching his face for an answer, completely elated at my new beginning and slowly watched his face as negativity choked it. “No!” came the answer.

There was no time taken to think about it, no consideration for the excitement I was bursting with, a simple ‘no’ finished the conversation there and then. I have to tell you that although I may not have shown it, I was pretty devastated. I remember my insides wanting to curl up in a foetal ball and hide from the world. I suddenly felt on display, like the whole pub had heard and were watching my inner crisis. Of course no one had heard, nor were they interested, but there it was, my dream screwed up in a ball and thrown across the room along with my excitement and self-esteem. If you’ve ever had a long night, it’s probably nothing compared to that one. I couldn’t let him see how hurt I was. I had to sit there and be entertaining, but inside all I wanted to do was cry my heart out.

I know my fiancé, and at the time I knew that no meant no. There wasn’t any point arguing with him, it would have been a waste of my time and energy. Pleading was demeaning, so I resigned myself to forgetting the dream and to getting on with my career that was going nowhere. You see, at the time I had worked tirelessly for a promotion at work. I worked all my evenings and weekends, late into the night. I stayed back and worked an extra two hours on top of my working day that I wasn’t getting paid for, nor acknowledged for, to get a department up and running for my employer, but when it came to promotion, I was passed up in favour of another. This reality check hit me hard. I suddenly saw how I had been used. I had been looking for something special to do with my life since leaving school. I’d worked in numerous sectors, trying lots of different jobs and careers, but nothing had ever satisfied that need. This job was the closest I had been to achieving it. I knew that commitment to work wasn’t the problem, nor was skill, I was simply on the wrong path. I needed to get on the right path, to be doing the thing that I was supposed to be doing with my life. This new career direction I’d been forced into was the catalyst I needed for change.

If I could work that hard for someone else, then surely I could turn that around and apply those same attributes to a project of my own. I had never needed to leave a job as much, in my life before. I loved the people I worked with, but I needed a job that was fulfilling. Yet my fiancé had told me not to be a writer for a living, so I had a huge conflict. I was torn.

Days went by, I had put the writing aside and tried to distract myself, ignoring the urge inside me to continue, but no matter how hard I tried, everything came back to writing. It was all I could think about – my mind was bursting with images. I went off my food, everything became tasteless; every task at work that I’d seen as a new and exciting challenge, became monotonous and boring, or just another problem to solve. I could see no future with this employer. There was nothing to work for, nowhere for me to aspire to, but I had a mortgage and bills to pay and the recession had hit hard – there were no jobs. So I stayed with my employer, keeping my head down and hoping for a way out of my situation, but couldn’t really see a way out with the recession.

The need to write was getting stronger, all the while. I couldn’t deny it any longer and the old adage, ‘when one door closes, another one open,’ circled in my mind, over and over. So I sat at my desk and reassessed my career expectations. I knew that I no longer had a career, I had a job now.

Trapped, I slowly began to question myself. From the summer of 2010, all the way through 2013, was like living in hell for me. I had given all I could and had done my best at work, so the problem then must surely lie with me, but they were still coming to me for all the answers.

I have to admit that the night at the pub, hadn’t deterred me for long. I love my fiancé, but I have always had the ability to see where we needed to be further down the line. With everything that was happening at work, I knew from the start that I could never come back from what they had done to me, so I had to move forward. He didn’t understand just how bad things were for me, because I tried to shield him from as much as I could and deal with it on my own. Reinvention was my only way forward.

The urge to write had become so strong that I couldn’t resist it any longer. Deep down, I knew that this was my way forward. I didn’t know what was driving me in this direction, but I had never experienced anything so powerful in my life before and knew I couldn’t ignore it. So I did something that I am quite ashamed of now, and started writing in secret, even though I knew that he wouldn’t support my new direction. If nothing else, I had reached a point in my life where everything was a ‘no’ anyway. Anything I asked for, I got one blanket answer – NO! The only person who could change that was me and I had to try, so every spare minute I had, I got my laptop out and I wrote as much as I could.

I was beginning to realise that I was in the company of other writers, some more successful than others, so I could see first-hand that there was a way of making an income from it. Slowly, Hidden started to take shape and I knew that I had the foundations for a book. I had to stand back a few times and shake myself, because I had no idea where this stuff was coming from, but once I had opened that gate, everything started pouring through. The tidal wave of creativity shows no signs of slowing down today and I know in the long run I made the right decision, but at the time I couldn’t deny that Matt was suspicious.

One day we sat down and he came right out and asked me if I was having an affair. I had to laugh. He had watched me on the computer, typing away and assumed the worst. I had never been so happy to put him straight about something. I showed him my book and asked him what he thought. He never gave me a direct answer, but from that point on, I never wrote in secret again. He has supported me all the way.

As I run the two careers side by side, very few people at work know that I am a writer and author and have been since that hot sunny day in August. I look back at the hell I have been through since I got sick and can now cherish this time. I have let go of many of my responsibilities at work. I now plough this time into my own venture. Sometimes the tower has to crumble to give us a new beginning. If none of it had happened, I would have still been doing the same job, probably for many years to come. With a publishing contract signed, and my first book about to be released imminently, I am still there, working at the same place. I can hear the gasps now, as you read this, especially after they treated me so badly. I knew, however, that if I was going to get my writing career off the ground, I needed to focus just on that. Applying for other jobs and the prospect of retraining and starting again from scratch, were taking the focus and my energy away from the writing, so I’m running the wheel and working toward a new goal – To be a full-time writer and author.

Serina Hartwell – Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

Thank you for taking the time out to read my blog. Don’t forget to follow me and tell a friend. Why not leave me your thoughts or a good review? I have a new website available at – http://www.serinahartwell.com

 

 

The Stepping Stones To Becoming A writer

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Where the magic happens

Where the magic happens

 

When I finished reading all the YA I could get my hands on, I wondered if I could write anything that could create those feelings in another.

 

It’s funny when I think back to the stepping stones that led me to becoming a writer. It should have been obvious from the start that I was always going to become one, yet for years I searched for it. I always had a deep seated need to be my own boss. I knew that whatever I was going to do, needed to be unique, creative and inventive. I also knew that I needed to produce something that was truly mine, something I could call my own. The question was what?

 

I wasted a lot of time looking for the outlet that was going to lead me to my future accomplishment. Singing on the X-Factor was popular, but completely out of the question, as I am tone deaf. I’m not exactly sporty; in fact after running a mile, I’m more incline to collapse than run a victory lap, so I needed to look for something else. I needed to look for some special quality or skill, but I also needed to make a living, so I had to dig deep and start thinking outside of the box.

 

I have to admit that for years I was lost, because I’m nobody special. I’m just as ordinary as the next person. I knew that I had always been a creative. I’d always enjoyed all forms of art and was of a reasonable standard when I was younger, but I had turned my back on it when I left school, writing it off as a hobby, rather than something I could make an income from and never considered writing to be an art form.

 

My best friend at school, Anne, once told me out of the blue, that she always admired my writing. I remember choosing my A-Level subjects and being stuck for my forth choice. I walked around all the stalls as students do and in the end picked English Literature. I had no particular compulsion attracting me to it, I hadn’t bought into the subject at GCSE, but simply needed a fourth, it meant that I could read books and I remembered what Anne had said. In the end it was my best subject. I found an affinity with it that was unparalleled. I answered every question first and took the lead on every discussion in class. I was a natural, I understood the characters, the writer’s inner workings, the subtle symbolism and the motives behind their characterisations. I didn’t have to think about it, it was as clear to me, as if I had written it myself. I had the ability to read between the lines. I had found my subject. It was the first time I had really felt accomplishment, but life caught up with me as life does and took me in a new direction leaving English behind.

 

As time went by, nothing presented itself as a particular talent. I had long since put my success with English behind me, so I was amiss, until I linked a number of random events that had occurred throughout my life. These led me to picking up a computer and making a start. Who knows what makes us suddenly sit up one day and make the connection we’ve been trying to make for a life time. Maybe there is no answer, but for me, it all started when my colleague, Elaine, came into the office one day and raised the question, ‘If you could be anything you wanted to be, what would you be?’ I remember sitting at my desk, up to my neck in work, having one of my usual stressful days and without a moment’s hesitation replying, “A writer.” It wasn’t something I considered before replying. It just rolled off my tongue. I hadn’t even put pen to paper at that point, but there it was, it was out there. I was busy and the conversation ran its course, so I forgot all about it and went back to work, but these words must have come from somewhere, and they certainly lodged themselves somewhere more available.

 

So not much changed in my life. I went about my usual daily routine, working full time at a school and raising a family, with many more little events happening along the way. I changed my job at the school and writing became more of a feature in my role. I wrote a report for a colleague – Tucker, who read it, immediately passing comment on how well it had been written. Again, I didn’t think anything particular about it, I’d just completed a task that he’d asked me to do. I had previously worked with many English teachers, but I particularly remembered Mrs Basic’s classes. Her work really struck a chord with me, but again I still hadn’t made any connections.

 

We had an old computer that a friend gave me. It had a big bulky tower and was set up in an awkward place, but one day I had an urge to have a go at writing something. Another random thought that popped into my head. I wondered if I could do it and the compulsion to do it felt really strong. The kids were occupied and I had some time, so I sat and wrote a couple of pages. I started striking the key, instantly finding a storyline. It was the weirdest thing, but it felt natural and comfortable. It all got interrupted and I never went back to it. Soon after, the computer died and that was that.

 

The next, more significant event that took place was when I noticed my daughter was reading a book that everyone on the bus was reading, and all the kids at school. With my motherly curiosity taking president, I wanted to know what my then teenage daughter was reading, so I asked her. She told me about it and offered to lend it to me. At the time I had a busy career and no spare time to indulge in reading, so when she offered to let me read it, I immediately regretted it, because it was the size of a catalogue. I didn’t want to let her down, as she had so adeptly plugged the book and I wanted to ensure that what she was reading was appropriate, as she had already started the second, so I took it. At first I decided to just read enough to get a feel for the story, see if it was suitable and slip it back into her room, telling her I’d read it, but I reach a point which hooked me to the point I almost missed my bus stop. I remember hurtling down the bus, shouting at the driver. Something inside me unlocked, something I couldn’t explain. The book was Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. I have a lot to be grateful to Stephenie for, she was the humble beginning of all the dots lining up.

 

I read the whole Twilight series in 3 weeks, which was a record for me, discovering that reading YA books was quite appealing. It reminded me of all those raw emotions felt as a teenager that are lost over time, as our careers and daily grind beat them out of us. When I finished the series, I went to my daughter to see what else she was reading, looking to evoke the feelings that had been stirred up inside me. She was heavily into L.J. Smith at the time, so I started reading her novels. I went looking for more of her work and came across the Vampire Diaries. I tore through the series. When I reached the end of book 7, I put it down and wondered what I should read next, because I had read everything she had wrote in the series up to that point and was hungry for the next one, but knew that I had to wait. The thought occurred to me that maybe I could have a go at writing myself. I wondered if I could write anything that could create those feelings in another. Again, being a practical person, I brushed the momentary thought aside and went about my usual business. Later that month, I had an unusual dream.

 

At this point you may be reading this, shaking your head and thinking what’s unusual about that. There are two things that were unusual for me. Firstly, I know that I dream, everybody does, but I very rarely remember them or know that I have. Secondly, on the rare occasion that I do realise I’ve had a dream, I remember it for all of 30 seconds, often forgetting the finer points, like everyone else. However, this dream was different.

 

On a handful of occasions in my life, I’ve had dreams that have been so profound, they have not only stayed with me, but it have marked a significant point in my life. These dreams I can still see when I close my eyes today. I can recount them at will and they never go away. This was one of them and it came with an over whelming need to write. I woke up with what I can only describe as a charge inside me. It was like electricity and it surged through me, looking to expel itself. What everyone else could see, suddenly occurred to me. Had I found my talent? And could I make it work?

 

I still relive the emotions of having to wait for the right time to try writing again. The burst of excitement within me was all the more concentrated for waiting. I finally found my opportunity one August afternoon in 2010. Everything fell into place that day, my son was out playing football and my daughter was hitting the books for her GCSE’s, so I borrowed my daughter’s laptop and headed down to the bottom of the garden. I can still feel the butterflies today. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket on a windy day. One false move and the whole thing could be a disaster, but I opened a word document and began typing. I wrote the opening chapter to Hidden and never looked back. Today, I am in the process of publishing that very same book. I have two more books at various stages of completion and already know that there will be at least another two books in the saga.

 

It’s funny where humble beginnings can take us. Who could have imagined, when I was my children’s age that today I would be a writer and author? To this day, I have not stopped writing, whether it has been something for one of my books, or something toward marketing the saga. It just took one or two stepping stones and a bit of realisation that my talent was there all along. I just never put my finger on it.

 

Serina Hartwell – Author of The Hidden Sagahttp://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

 

Thank you for taking the time out to read my blog. Don’t forget to follow me and tell a friend. Why not leave me your thoughts or a good review? I have a new website available at – http://www.serinahartwell.com

 

 

Supressed

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Supressed

Supressed

I see the thirst behind your eyes,

The ambition that dwells within,

Waiting to escape its confines,

It sits there trapped within.

Always looking for an outlet,

An opportunity managed your way,

For a new chapter to begin,

Keep trying, it will happen someday.

Like the rising of an established flame,

You try to supress your needs,

You do it for those around you,

But need serves to hinder your way.

Stop waiting for that day to come,

And start to make it happen,

Take your ideas out of the box,

And watch them shape your day.

Soon your exit will be illuminated,

Hard work will line your path,

Creativity will be supressed no longer,

And reward will ensue at last.

So pick up a pen and a piece of paper,

A note pad, computer, telephone,

Go do your research and preparation,

Cause one day you’ll need them no more.

By Serina Hartwell

Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

If you like my work, tell a friend. Thank you for your support.

The History of Hearts

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The History Of Hearts

The History Of Hearts

The things she never knew were left

Behind her the past that travelled so quickly

Like a speeding train it sped right by her

Never knowing what his heart wanted to impress

Peace will find him, but not for a while

The young girl on the platform waves goodbye

Her raincoat glistens in the darkness

Caught in the stormy rain

Forever searching to find that girl

She never ventured back

An opportunity lost, two lives changed forever

History, life, tracks, laid to the past

But fate isn’t finished yet, the tale isn’t told

For fate has another card to play

Light shines on the platform of the darkened evening

Once more she stands and waits

To hear his words, his feelings conveyed

Two lives on separate tracks

One story complete, a happy ending relayed

Life’s train delivered her back

For he waited and searched for his girl on the train

To ask her for her hand

He told her all those long lost words

The words she longed to hear

But time doesn’t wait and life keeps moving

A story beckons on

Life needs to keep pursuing adventure

While adventure carries on

He stands on the platform and waves at the woman

Who stands before him now

A smile on their faces, a heart in their hand

They travel off to separate lands

Regret for a day of untold feelings

A longing left to wait

For waiting left them to wonder forever

The history of two hearts

By Serina Hartwell

Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

If you like my work, tell a friend. Thank you for your support.

To Escape a Moment

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To Escape A Moment

To Escape A Moment

What water drips on my page of questions?

It lies bland and waiting for my hand

To wander through its distant pages

Of lands to be explored

The water drips down my window

Drawing me from my page

What story lies behind each raindrop?

Waiting to be collected

 

I travel, wander, fight and dance

As ink glides across my page

Where will my journey end today?

As water drips across my ink

My pen placed down I sit and wonder

At the place I have journeyed today

My heart is crying with tears I squander

As my journey ends today

Tomorrow will start another journey

Another empty page

Where will I escape to another day?

Another grey rainy day

 

By Serina Hartwell

Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

If you like my work, tell a friend. Thank you for your support.

Steps

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Steps

Steps

The steps I take, one foot in front of the other,

Take me closer to our new life,

A new beginning, for you and me,

A lighter time together.

The occasions I’ve missed,

The weekends I’ve worked,

The late evenings and holidays,

The housework still waiting to be done.

They take me a step closer,

To where I belong,

The place I should have been,

All along.

Our future together,

Secure for the rest,

Of a life of creativity,

Enrichment and course.

I do it for us,

I do it for me,

Our new life awaits us,

In the steps that I take.

By Serina Hartwell

Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

If you like my work, tell a friend. Thank you for your support.

Waiting

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Waiting

Waiting

I resign myself to stop, to begin again

Waiting

I sit on heaven’s steps and wait

Just listening

Waiting

Waiting for the butterfly to be reborn

Transformed again

And follows its lead

Waiting

I wait to begin again

My life transformed

And take off into the open pasture

Waiting

I ready myself once more

By Serina Hartwell

Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

If you like my work, tell a friend. Thank you for your support.

Down

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Down

Down

No matter how far you fall,

You can only tumble so far,

Before the bottom serves as the prompt,

That it’s time to look up to the light.

Up toward the light,

At the end of the tunnel,

To the light that will guide your way,

To your new bright future that lays in wait.

The journey is long,

The climb is tremendous,

The darkness holds on,

But the light’s strength is great.

It’s calling, it’s true,

Your future lies dormant,

It lies just ahead,

Around the corner and just out of view.

And waiting, just waiting,

For you to arrive,

At the meeting point in time,

Of the positive and new.

So much work is needed,

But your strength will renew,

The distance is far,

To the new beginning that awaits you.

So, although you may stumble,

And fall on your way,

To the top you may stagger,

But climb anyway.

The mountain is worthy,

Of the climb of your life,

The target in sight,

So don’t lose hope yet.

Don’t give up yet,

The test is almost up,

Just keep digging deep within,

For the strength buried down, within.

To find your will,

To persist to the end,

One day you’ll look back,

And say, “Remember when”,

From your position of triumph,

Comfort and renewal,

These days will pass soon,

They’re only for so long.

So keep your faith within,

Hold onto it tight,

The finish line will come soon,

And will end your fight.

By Serina Hartwell

Author of The Hidden Saga

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/author-serina-hartwell.html

If you like my work, tell a friend. Thank you for your support.