Lately, people have been asking me where I get my characters from. I chuckle to myself when greeted with this question; semantics aside, the word ‘get’ conjures images of me plucking characters from shelves when out doing errands, perhaps wedging the unruly ones in my hand basket so I can admonish them under the pretence of a phone call.
Why do universities often make things so much more complicated than they actually are? Is is a power thing? A desire for exclusivity and advantage? A justification for fees? And how do these translate for a young person keen to take up a primary teaching position? Should a warning label be attached?
As writers we often play detective – probing, investigating, discovering, each step bringing us closer to the truth. But what if the subject of your investigation is mysterious, surly, contradictory and often inaccessible? What if the person you’re trying to understand is standing on the other side of a locked door, with a mad dog at their side?
What if that person is you?