“I want to be a writer”, I think to myself without a hint of hesitance. One by one the words begin to roll off my tongue, only to become halted by that same old belittling voice. Mrs Realist steps forward and tells me not to be so silly. “A writer!” She scoffs. “What sort of job is that?” And so the words dissolve on the tip of my tongue and re-emerge as “I’m a stay at home mum.” My ‘fantasist self’ rolls her eyes and sighs disapprovingly. The conversation soon comes to a stagnant end, and that niggling voice kindly reminds me, once again, that I must DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE