I was always the kid sent to the back of the class for talking too much. But all that constant chatter was merely word-practice, it seems, and my loquacity was a great grounding for being a writer.
The only teacher who never banished me to the back was himself a writer. He used my name as a character in his first book. This was a good omen, I feel.
Now I’m writing a memoir of my vagabond years, spent living full-time in an old, American motorhome. And I’ve discovered my writing voice means I’m actually the secret love-child of Bill Bryson and Bridget Jones.
Well, why not? Somebody should be.