My writing
It is always terrifying to call yourself a writer.
Until recently, my creative writing played second fiddle to my journalism - where I have bylines in publications such as Huffington Post, Metro and the Independent. The first time I really felt confident calling myself a writer is when I finished the first draft of my book; a memoir which charts the story of my dad, Patrick, through the trees and wildflowers in the places that shaped him: the gorse covering the Wicklow mountains, the cherry blossom in Paris’s botanical gardens and the Old Man’s Beard that lines the paths of Gravesend, where I grew up.
It took me 18 months to write my dad's life story, a journey which saw me travel to Dublin, Paris, Suffolk and London, sneaking around in graveyards, knocking on people's front doors and uncovering dusty archives in library vaults around the country. I then spent a further 9 months editing, and am now seeking agent representation for my manuscript - a brand new chapter, just as daunting as writing the thing!