natasha farrant literary
I was about six years old when I first read a story independently, in a sunlit
classroom of the Lycée Français in London’s Cromwell Road. I remember clearly
how the world around me fell away as I was transported into the pages of the
book, to a castle garden in another country, another time. From that moment, I
only ever wanted to be a writer. It took me a while. After leaving university, I
went to work for a publishing company, got married, had children… I loved all of
it, but a part of me still longed to write. I complained about this quite
extensively, until one dear friend reminded me in a very no-nonsense way that
“writers write”. In other words, to get on with it.
