'Salt Blue'published by 'Honno', came out in April, 2010, when I was sixty seven.It begs the question, what took me so long?

If it was not for the encouragement of my family, I might never have written it.

My mother claims that when readingmy first essay in the grammar school she knew I would be a writer one day.

In order to have something to write about a novelist has to do some living and make a living, too.

I worked for three years in the Civil Service andthen I trained as a teacher. When I qualified my mother said, 'Don't teach! You can write.'

Whilst that mightbe true, Ihad heard of writersstruggling for years to have their work published. Anyway, I could not think ofa story soI decided to teach. At least, I would have a pay cheque at the end of the month to justify the four years I had spent in college.

I taught for twenty one years beforetaking early retirement. I then did an MA in Creative Writing, with the intention of writing a novel. As part of the course, we were asked to write some poetry and, instead of producing a novel, I concentrated on poetry.

I decided perhaps novel writing wasn't for me. I was about to embark on an art course when my daughtersasked when was I writing the novel. I wasn't surebut the three year degree art course was starting in a week's time.

I like pleasing people. I also havea feeling that there is magic in the moment. Later that day, as soon asI was alone, I decided to try writing. If inspirationarrived,I would take it as a sign I was meant to write.

I cleared my mind of all thoughts andswitched the computer on.

The screen flickered and thenonto the page leapt the first line of the novel that was to become 'Salt Blue'.

'The morning light is as clean and blank as afrost-bleached sheet'. I'd started.

Those thirteen words were to expand into a two hundred and forty five page novel.

I told myself I would write so much then find I had nothing more to say. It had happened before, many years ago, but this time it did not. (Not at that point, anyway). Four or five pages later, it was time for a meal. Four or five pages again, another meal.

The next day was Sunday. 'Tomorrow, you will be stuck', I told myself. I'm fairly optimistic but I had experienced set backs in the past or thrownwork away, believing it to be boring.My philosophy involved not hoping for too much, to save myself from disappointment.

The next day, I felta powerfulurge to continue writing and,suddenly, I knew I'd found my voice.This wasthe novel I was meant to write.

I cancelled the art courseby saying: 'I'm writinga novel'. If anyone had asked me what the story was about, I could not have told them but I had the heroine, twenty year old Stella who lived in a small Welsh village.

People havecommented that the book is autobiographical, which it isn't. Admittedly, I have drawn on strands of experience I have had, described places I've been to, but Stella is not me nor anyone I have known. Also, and I did not know whether to be flattered or annoyed, someone said it was written by a young girl.Well, my chronological age and mental age are different, I'll admit.

There is a search for identity in the book. Stella needs to know who her mother is and also she has to forge her own identity. In a small village, society ascribespeople to a certain mould, children following in their parents' footsteps.

On Page 2, Stella says:'I like adding my signature, which is the surprise element'. In thisinstance, she tucks a velvet pansy into the bow of a bedjacket.The real surprise is that her surname isnotthat of her father, though I had not used the pansy as a device, it just worked into the theme.

Because her life is drab, Stella uses colour as a metaphor to repesent what she lacks.

'It is the reds, more than any other colour that vibrate. Cochineal, verbena, magenta, fuchsia...'

The reds are important, representing life and family blood lines, but on a simpler level,Stella needs them to give her a boost of energy.

I wrote the first half of the book fairly comfortably, but an art exhibition I was offered slowed me down. When I came back to the book, I did not know what to do with Stella.

She was at a testing time in her life andhad experienced an intense 'first love' relationship before doubts crept in.

Now came my testing time. I got stuck, for six months or more.

One day, when dusk was fallingoutside, I sat at the computer and looked at my hands.Why, when they had served mewell this far, could they not tap out the words to continue the story?

I tried again and, this time, everythingflowed. I completed the novel.

Ithanked all those who had waited for this book, my mother, my daughters, my husband and Caroline Oakley, the editor who had picked 'Salt Blue' up from the slush pile.