A class APART

I was happy as a teacher, and I rattled through swathes of written pages between holidays, parent emails and exam marking. I wrote two ‘novels’ in my twenties that were rejected mercilessly – quite rightly–but at my third school, and in my early thirties, the call to write rang out stronger.

Sylvia Plath’s ‘I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still,’ was certainly true for me. More than a voice, a heavy, burdensome purpose; I felt like a pregnant woman who couldn’t give birth. The use of my time weighed heavily on me – I was teaching teenagers (some brilliant, some cruel) and putting their needs and their words (whether Latin translations or essays on ancient literature) ahead of my own. It was time to answer that voice, and that call to write. So I gathered my savings, gave notice on my flat, put my stuff into storage, and quit my job.

I gave myself a year to have a good go at writing. There