I was born in Nottingham. My childhood was both physically and mentally abusive. As a result of this, from a very early age I would try to mentally escape. Books became my root. I would read to the point of obsession, books, magazines in fact anything I could get my hands on.

My parents never stayed in any one place very long. I attended no fewer that 21 schools. In the little schooling I had, I was always the outsider, an easy target for every school bully, and never made friend easily.

When I was about nine years old I decided I wanted to write, just like the people that had written the many books I had read. I was intelligent, a quick learner, just as well considering the upbringing that had come my way. Putting words down came easy. I did not have any paper so I would tear the blank leaves from the beginning and end of books, then write till my heart was content. Normally I would write about my feelings or the sort of day I had, but sometimes I would write stories.

Time moved on and I went to secondary school. This was the first time I had experienced a proper English lesson. I was consumed with enjoyment. I tried my best to attend every one I could, but because of circumstances at home, it was not many.

One day the English teacher talked about poetry, I listened intently, but lost track when my imagination took over. I started to write in my book, my own poem. I was so engrossed that I did not see the teacher at my desk. Also I did not hear the rest of the class sniggering, as I scribbled away furiously. The first I knew about this unwanted attention, was when the teacher snatched the book from me. She stood and read aloud everything I had written. My whole creation was being mocked. She threw the book at me and told me to concentrate on something I was good at, her words, I quote.' I really do not know what that could be.' I was humiliated beyond my understanding. I sat and listened to the roar of my classmate's laughter ringing in my ears. This incident stayed with me for a very long time. It was the last time I wrote for many years.

At 18 I married, not for love, but to escape the daily abuse I received at home. We had a son. When my son was just 6 months old my husband, though only 21, died of a massive heart attack. I was 19.

I was alone and unable to cope, so I returned home. My Dad matched me up with several of his friends, the abuse was continued. I started to drink a bottle of scotch a day, sometimes more. One of My Dad's friends would supply drink, in return for favours. I thought he was helping me. I was to drunk and to mixed up to notice the danger signs, so a little over a year later I married him.

We were married for four years, and had two daughters. My husband beat me regularly to submission. One day I woke up and thought I would rather be dead than be here. I took an overdose. It was a poor attempt. My survival of that incident put me on the path I needed to be on. I left him

Over the next 10 years I stopped drinking, got a job, and eventually went back to college, then university, part time. I took a business degree and landed a very successful job, giving me a further 10 years of an amazingly successful career.

I met my current husband, a wonderful caring man. We have been married 19 years, and have two daughters. Three years ago I began to be unwell. At first it was put down to stress of the past and burn out from the long hours I worked. I took 6 months off work and underwent intensive counselling for past things. This was one of the hardest times in my life. Though my wonderful husband supported me through the whole process, it was still me who had to come to terms, with the shear scale of what I had been through.

Physically I was drained. Tests were run, and in February 2006 I was told Multiple Sclerosis was the likely cause of most of my symptoms.

The weight of yet another problem sent me spiralling into a pit of depression. It was whilst in that state that my doctor suggested writing things down. I refused. I had not written any of my thoughts or feeling down since my humiliation in the classroom, some 30 or so years before.

One day I sat, I could not do much else, I was so tired. I picked up pen and paper and started to doodle....... then words came, they flowed as a torrent of water bursting from a dam. I wrote and wrote.

Now nearly 4 years later, I am a freelance writer. I have been published, in a wide variety of magazines, on a number of different subjects. I have written my life story, and am working on further projects that hopefully will be published shortly. I am assisting the launch of Poole literary festival in 2010. Also I write fiction, short stories, and have future plans to write a novel or two.

Oh yes and I run writing courses! I chose to do this because I often wonder if all those years ago that teacher would have encouraged me, what a difference would that have made? I want to give as many people as I can the chance to be encouraged.

Whether you choose to attend a course or not, the important thing is, if you want to write then write. Whether you end up with your work being widely read, or whether it is for your eyes only, does not matter. What matters is you follow your dream. I did

God Bless,

Tracy