Liz Lawler
When I was 18 I wanted to join the police
so that I could become a detective. I used to imagine all the ways people could
commit and hide a crime and how I then, could solve it. I used to imagine the
most heinous crimes and am glad no one could ever see into my mind.
My mother had different ideas. She planned
for me to be a nurse and before I knew it I was in training school as a student
nurse. Looking back my mother was right to push me in that direction as being a
nurse enriched my life and taught me so many skills. When I became a general
manager of a five star hotel I had no experience of working in a hotel, let
alone running one, but I’d had the experience of running wards, being in charge
of a small hospital, being responsible for the lives of seriously ill patients.
I had 20 years of nursing to offer. How hard could it be?
I drove the chefs mad for starters, as I could
never cut bread straight. A cardinal sin in the eyes of a chef. I constantly
called the guests, patients. And I knew nothing about the exquisite food they
cooked. I had a lot to learn. But how did I end up in such a job?
While I was working in A&E I got home one
night to find I’d received an email saying I’d been shortlisted for a writing
completion, one which I didn’t enter or know about. A friend of mine who I sent
a story to read had entered me into it.
I was thrilled of course, and the competition was big, international
with three British and two American writers making the top five. I made a trip to London to the London Book Fair
and was astonished when an actor read aloud an extract of my story to an
audience. It was surreal to see one of the judges was one of my favourite
authors. However, it was not all roses
as one judge slated me. I returned home vowing to never write again and to
always be a nurse.
But here’s the thing; writing is a bit like
been bitten by a bug, only the sting lasts much longer. A constant niggle that
won’t let up and won’t go away. I left A&E and applied for a job at a brand
new hotel hoping to be a housekeeper, a job that would give me time to write,
little knowing at the time I was stepping out of the frying pan into the fire
and would be managing this hotel a few short months later, leaving little time
for sleep let alone writing.
At
this stage I began to think I’m not meant to write, or was I deliberately
putting obstacles in the way so I couldn’t? Was I too afraid of failure?
Knowing myself I would say yes. I’d rather have sticks and stones break my
bones than words telling me I’m not good enough. So not knowing if you’re not
good enough was a comfortable place to be. It was safe.
It would be a few years later before I
began writing again, instigated by a phone call from my mother. She rang me to
say there was a writing competition and I didn’t have long to enter as it was
closing soon. I told her I was done with writing and she told me I was a fool. A
week later she died suddenly at the age of 89 and she was buried on her 90th
birthday, just before Christmas. After the funeral I returned home and I
remembered out last conversation. I remembered hearing the frustration in her
voice that I had given up. I decided to check out the details of this
competition and saw that the deadline for submissions was less than a week away.
I entered a story I knew she liked. The story was Don’t Wake Up, my debut novel.
‘If’ is such a small word. Yet so much hinges
on it. If she hadn’t rang me? If she hadn’t died? If her last words didn’t ring
in my head would I ever have entered that competition?
I
like to think I would have.
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