The Evolution of a Writer - Part One
At the age of about eleven I had a peculiar dream in which a maniacal man of magnificent delusions found himself in possession of a bulging ring binder full of notes and papers. His eyes widened in crazed ecstasy as he declared, “At last, I have everything that Kerin has ever written!” As if he had just found the Holy Grail of English literature. Well, I don’t know about that, but it must have had some influence on me, as from then on I became determined to become the writer of my dreams. For the next ten to fifteen years I tortured innocent notebooks and unsuspecting scraps of paper with invisible brilliance, meaning the “brilliant” part of my writing was cloaked in nonsense; the true value of my poetry and prose extended no further than the cost of the ink I had wasted… But I suppose not all is wasted, after all perfection can only come through perseverance, and my blindness to how completely rubbish I was certainly enabled me to persevere! Just to be clear, I’m not claiming...