The Ghost Writer
One day on my way to work I had a sudden flash of inspiration and couldn’t wait to get to there. I grabbed the first thing I could write on which was Aran’s notepad (luckily he didn’t mind) and scribbled down what was to be a very rough draft of The Ghost Writer. I had character names, a plot and a twist come to me in the five minutes it took me to walk to work. That day I kept thinking about how I couldn’t wait to get home and write the story. It was a very rare occasion I would get a chance to watch the clock in that place as I was always so busy, but I was doing it every five minutes that day. As soon as 5:30pm came I was out that door like a flash and went straight home, nobody was in so I headed straight up to my room. My stash of Red Bull was beside my bed that I’d got the day before from Sainsbury’s, I knew I would need it as I was in for a long night. By the time I’d written the first draft, I looked out the window and dawn was starting to break. I didn’t intend on being up all night writing it I have to say, but it was worth it. I saved it, and a copy to my memory stick so I could print off some copies at work, then put my head down. Although it didn’t seem worth it at the time, if only for a couple of hours or so, I needed to close my eyes. I staggered into work a couple of hours later, extremely bleary eyed and printed off a few copies, distributing them round to a few people. The feedback I got was second to none, and something I wasn’t expecting. I had never shared any of my stories with anyone other than my Gran, and since she passed away I gave up, but felt that I owed it to her to give this one a try. When I was nine years old I used to write stories of space travel and visits to other times by means of a tornado touching down in Caterham, taking half the town back to the 1950s when Elvis was alive. These were stories way more advanced than what a nine year old should have been writing and my Gran always encouraged me to follow my creative side. I owe it all to her.