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Many things have surprised me since I first 'got serious' about my writing. Perhaps arrogantly, I'd always assumed I would be a writer. When I was a teenager, the thought of actually sitting down and penning an entire novel didn't perturb me too much. That stuff was all in the future. One day, the muse would overcome me and a novel would pour out of my head as easily as water from a tap, brilliant, insightful and a bestseller, of course. Ah, the sweet innocence of youth.

I began to 'get serious' while I was at university. Knowing there wasn't a lot I could actually do with an English Literature degree and struggling for a career to pursue, I turned to writing. It was what I had always wanted to do, it should be my career, right? Maybe if I knocked a novel out now, I'd be a bestselling author by the time I left university and would never have to enter the scary real world of work at all. Genius!

Except, that first novel was pretty terrible. I jammed in every fairytale character I could think of (fairies, elves, witches, wizards... even a fire breathing dragon called Branweg), at 60,000 words it was far too short; and the main character was basically a thinly disguised rip-off of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Once I'd been subjected to my first (and trust me, last) encounter with a vanity press ("We loved your manuscript! We want to publish it, all we need is 2000 towards costs..." Yeah right!), the novel was retired, doomed to live the rest of its existence buried deep within a folder on my computer.

All this was a shock to the system. I was supposed to be famous by now, reaping the rewards of my literary talent and considering movie deals. Three years passed, graduation came and went and university was replaced with the scary real world of work I had tried so hard to avoid. But the muse is an impatient, demanding little lady with a penchant for huge boots, all the better to continually kick a writer in the back of the head with when they're not working on anything. I could either settle down and try to progress in the hideously boring admin jobs thrust upon me, or I could get serious about my writing. It's not much of a choice really, is it?

So here I am, aged 25 with a handful of short stories published in small press magazines and the first draft of my second novel under my belt. I still dream of escaping the real world, able to immerse myself in my characters and their worlds rather than drag myself kicking and screaming to the office every morning. But the muse is finally sated.

Learn more about this author, Briana Bernard.
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