“Linda Maaaaaaary!” yelled my Scouse-Irish-Catholic mother who was an utter hypocrite and hated being known by her full churchy name of Patricia Anne Veronica. Sounded like a bloody nun so of course, me being me, I used to prefix it with Sister – just because it sounded so niiiice next to Patricia. This was assonance and I didn’t know it.
“What are you hiding? I can read you like a book”.
Apparently, everybody always could – except me. I had no idea who I was.
I’m not one of those womb-writers who’s been at it since conception. I haven’t always wanted to write. But this: I’ve always written. And because I always did, everyone else decided that’s what I was going to do. I denied it, of course – and then went and wrote about my desire for people to drop the subject.
Having my father for a dad helped…
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