It's a Long Road.

It’s a long road.

I’m not sure where it started.

Maybe it was my mother reading me a story?

Maybe it was playing with toys on the floor?

Maybe it was teacher, a visit to the library, kicking a can down the street?

Maybe it was all of those things?

All I know for certain?

It’s a long road.

There were trips and stumbles aplenty; there aren’t many roads that are straight.

I know mine wasn’t.

It took a turn at school, when my dreams crashed around me, ripped apart as I ripped open the envelope with my exam results.

I wasn’t going to be a writer.

So I took another turn and became a roofer, then a jeweler, then a thousand dead-end jobs on a thousand dead-end days.

Moving down the road.

Another turn.

I became a cop.

I got married.

I got a house.

I got unmarried.

I got un-homed.

I got un-copped.

I slept in a car with nothing but a dog who would die for me, by a river that called my name on inky black nights that almost pushed me in.

I stayed in the car; I stayed with the dog, and he stayed with me.

Winter went and I got back on the road.

I drove a taxi.

I picked up a pen for what felt like the first time it had been so long.

I started to write.

It was a long road.

The dog didn’t make it.

A little part of me died with him.

But I stayed on the road.

I carried on writing.

I got better.

I got rejected.

I got better.

I got rejected.

I got better.

I got accepted.

I sat with my book, the ink nearly dry as my cheeks were wet.

It’s been a long road, but I’m nearly there.


Come with me.