I love…like L-O-V-E all things books, writing and word related. Books = slight (yes, slight) obsession  (regardless of what the family say – I think it’s perfectly acceptable for an adult to have a full-scale toddler-style meltdown because they only have 50 unread books left in the house, so…). But you know what I mean, when you tell people you want to write  – ideally for a living – you’re not taken seriously. There’s a social gathering, and after the initial round of faux-polite introductions someone starts the whole what do you do thing. And it’s fine for the first couple of people: “I’m an accountant” someone says. Everyone smiles and nods politely there’s a ‘witty’ joke about taxes. “I’m a teacher” someone says. Everyone smiles and nods politely and another ‘witty’ joke about never working with children/animals, and then you say some variation of “I’m an aspiring writer”…and the others exchange sideways glances. A deathly silence fills the room. A huge ball of tumbleweed rolls through. And then the questions begin (and by the way, your aspirations aren’t cool enough for you to get …