Sharri McGarry - An insight
I have been writing stories for as long as I can remember. I was the fifth of six children and we lived in a rambling four-storey town house. It was a magical house, with rooms beyond number, cupboards to hide in, a spooky cellar and of course older children’s STUFF to nosy around! Of two things I could be certain - my mother could always be found in the kitchen, and my father was a typewriter. I would get home from school and the click-clack would be coming from behind a locked door and I would say “What’s that?” and my mother would say “Oh – that’s your father.”!
I soon recognised his name on the books that took pride of place on our living room book-shelf, though it took me longer to figure out that he also wrote under pseudonyms. And I have never been able to brandish a book by Julie Bonner and say with any degree of aplomb “My father wrote this!”
My own need to write soon made itself clear by the rising pile of exercise books next to the bed I shared with my youngest brother. I would write down the stories I made up for him before we went to sleep – stories of Other Worlds that we could reach by twisting the buttons on our headboard. More books were stored in my den – a tiny under-the-stairs cubby hole where light streamed in the bottom half of a glorious stained glass window.