So why do I call myself a writer?
Today, I’ve changed seven nappies, does that make me a writer? No, maybe not.
I’ve given four hours of classes and that didn’t help my writing, I’ve fed four kids, talked to two and girgled with another two. No writing involved in this.
I’ve taken two to the boys to the pool and two girls to the hospital, still no sign of any writing.
I’ve huffed and puffed over a documentary about my beloved homeland; the Valley’s of South Wales and got sun burnt. No writing involved.
I’ve drunk five coffees, now that sounds more like a writer; I’ve read a few hundred pages of a great book, now this is training my mind, but no writing.
So why am I a writer? Well, all day I’ve dreamt of scenes and endings, of characters and plots, of Celts and gods. I am a writer, because I live it, dream it and eventually my passion end up on paper.
I may be a product of the unbearably sad valleys but I’m alive and I write and live in hope that someday people will read my work.
The books are out there, once in a while someone tells me they like them, I fly and feed on each good word, I suck the life from good reviews and get stronger, the bad one are my garlic, but they are few and far between.
I’m a writing, loving, Valley’s dad and proud, oh so very proud of where I’m from, let no man (except me) run my town down.