I once wrote a novel. It wasn’t a long one. It wasn’t a good one. But considering I was about 13 years old, it was an impressive achievement. My Dad bound it in a posh way (well, posh for 1994) and I showed it to all members of my immediate family. I don’t remember much about the synopsis but I do remember it being very close to Joanna Trollope’s The Rector’s Wife. In fact, I may have called it The Vicar’s Wife. It was all very exciting. There was even a sex scene – well, an implied one anyway, but controversial enough to raise the eyebrows of my Mum and my Nanna….
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