When I was a little girl, being raised by my grandparents was far harder than most might imagine. Grandparents are often thought of as the ones who sneak you sweets when your mum isn’t looking, or let you stay up past your bedtime. But mine? They were strict. Steeped in Victorian values, they expected discipline, decorum, and obedience at all times. Naturally, I rebelled—oh, how I rebelled. But that’s a story for another day.

The toughest part of my upbringing wasn’t the rules or the routines; it was the isolation. Friends were out of the question, pop music was banned, and even a pair of jeans was deemed unladylike. I was painfully lonely, navigating the world with undiagnosed autism, feeling like an antique in a modern world. It took an American family friend—someone we met on a train to Interlaken, Switzerland—to convince my grandparents to let me have my first pair of jeans. It was a small rebellion they tolerated, but it felt like a revolution to me.

Despite the constraints, my nights offered a rare escape. Grandpa, in his stern way, would hand me a dictionary or an encyclopedia to read. While others might have found this dull, for me it was the spark of something extraordinary. Those nights planted the seed of storytelling in my life. I’d write stories—short bursts of creativity on scraps of paper. With no one to share them with, most ended up in the bin. It didn’t feel like a loss then; it was just something I did to keep my mind alive.

In my early twenties, emboldened by some unnamed fire, I decided to write a novel. In two intense weeks, using an old Sharp typewriter, I hammered out a science fiction story about twins on a space voyage to find a new home. It had villains, adventure, and the promise of a better future. I was proud of it, in a quiet, secret way. I tucked the pages into a drawer, telling myself I’d muster the courage to send them to a publisher someday.

But someday never came. A “friend” stumbled upon it and destroyed it—“by accident,” they claimed. Whether it was spite or carelessness, it crushed something in me. After that, I vowed never to write a full-length story again. Instead, I dabbled in short pieces, most of which ended up deleted or forgotten.

Recently, though, something shifted. I wondered what would happen if I tried again. Tentatively, I made a few attempts—a horror story, a murder mystery titled The Village Cuckoo—but they fizzled out. And then, Whispers of the Wolf came to life. It wasn’t planned or perfect, but it flowed. I wrote it quickly, almost in a frenzy, afraid the story would vanish before I could finish it.

Now, people are reading it—and, to my surprise, liking it. Some have even encouraged me to flesh it out and self-publish. It’s not as polished or complete as I’d hoped, but it’s a beginning. Maybe it needs more detail, maybe it’s unfinished, or maybe it’s begging for a sequel. I’m not sure where this journey will lead, but one thing I know for certain: we regret most the things we never try.

So, to anyone hesitating to chase their dream, my advice is simple—go for it. Even if it’s messy, imperfect, or daunting. Because every story, no matter how flawed, is worth telling.

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