Sarah Broadley

When I begin to write a new story, regardless of what age range I am aiming for, there’s a voice I hear as I jot down the words. Sometimes the voice is loud and clear and other times it whispers before disappearing from my mind until I work my way through each chapter. When the voice stays with me for long periods of time I know I’ve finally found what I’m looking for. My main character has arrived. They have found their place within the lines on my page and they are asserting their authority with dialect and humour and

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My imposter syndrome thoughts started a while ago, when I first put pen to paper and considered myself a writer. Back when I was changing nappies in between drafts and using snail mail because on-line forms and e-mails weren’t used much at the time. Fast forward fourteen years and here I am. I was lucky enough to be selected to take part in The Hook. For those unfamiliar with it, it’s an event held every year at the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators annual conference. For those of a nervous disposition, look away now. The Hook is where

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I met you by chance. Your mass of brown cells sat quietly behind my optical nerve before the light picked you up and made you visible. Were you just waiting for your special moment to pounce or are you quite happy with your lot, sitting in the dark, silently evolving without a care in the world? You may think you’re unassuming with your blob-like structure, but I’ve met your kind before. One minute you’re all ‘yay, look at how cute I am’ then with a flick of your cell structure you force us to wait to hear all about you

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I have no idea why I woke up with the R.E.M song ‘Orange Crush’ going around in my head. Earworms are a normal start to my day but this one was particularly loud and insistent. Once the first sip of tea was consumed, it dawned on me once again that I had finished my first draft of current WIP. A milestone I’ve been trying to reach for months and finally, I’ve got there. The pile of paper sitting in its brand new folder, waiting to be read out loud before heading to my favourite in-house geek for tense and grammar

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The dog that follows me is not always black. Sometimes I don’t even see it as a colour as such, more of a presence waiting in the wings, ready to pounce when I least expect it. I liken it to a storm that’s brewing as a cluster of clouds form overhead, threatening to let their watery cargo fall to earth with great force and destruction. Dramatic as that may seem, when the world stops spinning for a second and the realisation sets in that rain is on the way, there’s always a strange lull before the onslaught begins. The undermining

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Words are a spattering of letters jumbled together to make coherent sentences. They are the beginning of a story or the creation of a song. Words twist and turn and meander across the page, their journey coming to an abrupt stop with the placement of pencil lead proclaiming the end of an idea with a small dot. Yet words can be cruel, forever held in time for the world to see. Unforgiving and shameful in their lot, words prod at the mind as guilt spreads its talons and digs in deep. Words can rejuvenate and replenish a soul but only

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