I wrote my first story when I was six.

It was a gripping tale about a dastardly crocodile by the name of Henry, let loose upon my primary school. Chaos ensued, children scattered, and our anti-hero caused all manner of mischief before he was captured by a zookeeper and removed safely to the wild (in Wales, apparently).

When I told the story of Henry, it got a reaction. People listened, and for a somewhat introverted 6 year old, that was huge.

I’d made contact with the outside world.

From that day onwards, telling stories became my way of connecting with others. I spent years learning everything I could about storytelling. Crafting a narrative, creating authentic characters, and ratcheting up the stakes until the reader thinks their heart might pop.

There was just one problem.

Somewhere along the way, I had to grow up and get an actual job, and I had no interest in being a starving writer (the starving part being the issue).

So I trained as a social worker and spent 17 years helping other people to find their voices. It turns out there are lots of people with things to say, but without the words to say them. Many people are struggling to connect. And it causes a lot of problems.