I put pen to paper dreaming of the end.

Why is it when writing time always seems to bend.

You dream about the story being told.

But then your imagination gets bold.

I played around and messed about.

Although most of the time I just wanted to shout.

I went through the highs and went through the lows.

And quite often me and my mind came to blows.

But when it was all said and done.

And the story was spun.

The feeling was like no other.

‘Is it any good?’ I asked my brother.

‘Yes it really is.’ He told me.

‘Well only in time will we see.’

The message flashed up sent.

And off it went.

For someone else to take a look.

That was the first time I ever finished a book.