I have always felt a burning need to write. To have my words etched onto the computer screen, staring back at me, saying nothing and everything all in one moment. Could be deleted like it never existed. I have nothing interesting to write about. I am not Kerouac, with a fascinating life story – typing out all my memoirs onto a scroll. I am no Dan Brown – spinning bloody best-sellers all over the place, practically sweating great ideas for novels. No, I am pretty useless in this respect although I, of course, am aware that being too self-deprecating at this point in time is doing nothing for my public image. What-ho a writer who doesn’t think she can write, go and buy the book as you’ll love it! It’s true that many people have this ambition: write a novel, see the TV show of the book and the film of the TV show of the book and watch the royalties come flocking into your bank account. Or, perhaps, live life as a mysterious and twisted recluse, die young, live forever; cult. Whatever. The purpose of writing isn’t to write, it’s to read you idiot!

- Pippa