Let’s talk about me becoming a author. It was a bit of an odd story and one I never tell too lightly. This was in my last year of uni, which seems like an age ago, but actually wasn’t. My final year they tried to introduce the idea of having a second part of your course. Like American colleges have but harder. I was in film and new media, which meant filmmaking and marketing those stories online through youtube and stuff. The second choice for my year was writing. Script writing to be exact. I was pretty good film student, I had people I liked to hang around with but would rather work with the rag tag bunch. The group made up of spares from other groups. Don’t know why I did but it was always been an amazing way of meeting people who were more out there than your average student. I was working on a script for my final course, it was a detective story about a detective who drank to keep himself mentally grounded (that script became the seed of Booker Shield.) obviously I handed in my final piece of work all polished off and neat. We handed our pieces in on a Monday, even though our lecture was on a Friday afternoon so the lecturer had time to give them a read. Friday rolls around. Remember at this point filmmaking is all I know. All my friends are hugely into cinema, I have actor friends and director friends. I sit down in this tiny room with pin boards and cheap, wonky blinds. “Karl.” she started, I hadn’t even said hello she just began. “Karl, I read your piece.” she paused. The grin on her face sort of wilted. ”and I’ve seen your work. And to be honest you make a much better storyteller than a filmmaker.” the bottom of my cinematic boat fell out. “your stories are much better on paper then you could ever make them on film.” she perked up again. I did not. There was a silence over the world as I walked out of the room. I hadn’t really listened to her words I heard I was a bad filmmaker and although I listened that was the line I heard over and over in my head. At the time I was work on some silly film about time travelers. After an hour the second bit sunk in, the good writer bit, but I was still annoyed. I sat on my laptop scrolling up and down this script. Another word document opened and I started to type away. That script became infinite people the first book I ever wrote. Although it got rewritten over and over the actual plot is still there. Now I’m working on Booker 2 I’ve starts see some of my need for cinema sneak into the book. It’s sort of like finding my voice. Folding my old voice in with my new one.