When my children were younger, I wrote them an original story about four children. The characters in the story were loosely based on them (okay, a lot based on them) and my writing seemed to delight their budding imaginations.

Spring forward several years and my young people are now adults. Much has happened during this time: the children lost their father to a sudden heart attack, and I lost my husband and closest friend.

I also became a blogger and newspaper columnist in an attempt to retain many of the personality quirks my husband loved. Writing became a place to pretend I had not died along with him and to remain recognisable to him should he have the ability in some afterlife to be looking down (or up) at me.

To pay the bills, I resumed my role in project management by day, writing during any spare time I had.

My naive little story from the days of my children’s babyhood remained largely unformed, until I hit on the idea of sending it to a publisher to see what they would make of it.

Read on | Submittable