Glorious, warm soup and a bacon sandwich were on offer in the restaurant of the Glencoe visitors’ centre in Scotland. Grateful for the shelter and food we huddled together and watched as the snow carpeted the mountains around us.
Eventually suitably warmed and fed I wandered across to the gift shop, hopeful of finding a novel on the massacre to further indulge my imagination. I stood by the bookshelf looking for a novel and overheard a middle aged couple discussing the lack of available fiction on Glencoe. They were looking for a fictional novel to take back home as a gift. I wasn’t able to find anything suitable either.
I already had a host of non-fiction books on the subject and saw nothing that I hadn’t already read. Leaving the shop empty handed, we made our way back to the car.
“Did you get some good books?” my husband asked, as we drove back to the Isles of Glencoe hotel.
“No, there was nothing,” I replied sadly. “There was plenty non-fiction but nothing like a novel for a relaxing read.”
“Then write one yourself,” he suggested.
And so the journey of learning how to tell stories began.