One day on the way to work on the bus I heard a muffled scream. I turned around to see who it was and realised it was me. I still don’t know if I screamed aloud or in my head but what I do know is that I could no longer endure the daily grind. My identity was being stripped bare, my ideas mangled, my former boldness of thought was slippery, impossible to hold. I couldn’t live the way I was living anymore, I knew it – I was too old to continue to make excuses for denying the creativity tugging at my heart and mind. So I quit my job. In middle age without a solid plan. And now I’m writing a novel. Foolhardy? Possibly. Necessary? Definitely. Do I even have any talent as a writer? Only time will tell. Join me on my journey to find out.