Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to be a writer. She didn’t have many friends; they weren’t as interesting as the ones she had in her head, and the places they were allowed to go were not as exciting as the fantabulous places she imagined. Sometimes this made her very sad but mostly she didn’t even notice.
One day a teacher asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. She knew what she wanted to be.
“An author!” she declared in the biggest, most grown up voice she could muster. Her chest swelled with pride as she cheerfully swung her white ankle socks and shiny patent shoes beneath her.
Her classmates whispered at each other while the young girl continued chatting about the books she’d seen her mum read and the nice story teller lady on the TV who was talking about all the thing’s she’d written. She had a big house with a swimming pool and lots of nice clothes. She had done so well and worked so hard she had all these things herself.
“Who is Jackie Collins?” one of her classmates asked. Another shrugged. Nobody knew what she was talking about.
“Is she our new dinner lady?” another asked.
The girl smiled sweetly at the speechless teacher. She didn’t know why he wasn’t saying anything. All eight year olds should have a plan; she’d be going to big girl school soon after all.
As her classmates pulled faces and giggled, she sat in quiet reflection. One day, she thought, you’re going to grow up and be a teacher or a nurse or work in an office and do the same thing every day. They’ll be making films about my books and you’re going to have to watch them.
A boy stuck his tongue out at her; Tommy was ‘orrible. The little girl just smiled…. yes, one day….