Dear sir or madam will you read my book?

Gosh, I haven't written a blog post for a while have I? I'd still blame Twitter, except that it's probably more to do with the fact that I've been doing much more writing offline in an attempt to breathe life into my Big Dream - to be a Proper Writer who writes books and stories and stuff.

So, draft 3 of my novel is currently sitting staring at me. I'm trying to work out whether to send it out to agents for their consideration or to give it another going over. Will Heaven Hayley and Jimmy Jones ever see the light of day? Only time will tell . . .

Meanwhile, I've been turning my hand to other stories and ideas. And I've been challenging myself a bit too. I've joined a writing group called Under The Pier 2 (there is also an Under The Pier 1, in case you're wondering) and although there has only been one gathering so far, it was absolutely fantastic. Just what I needed to get me focused back on to the process of writing. It reminded me how much I LOVED my A'level English classes. There's something very calming and absorbing about talking about imagination, words and ideas for me. Through this group I was made aware of a regular evening called Rattle Tales - which happens in Brighton every few months. The organisers invite people to submit their short stories. They pick their favourites and those writers are invited to come along to the event and read them out. On a bit of a whim, I submitted a story I wrote a few years ago called The Mermaid On The Train and to my utter surprise and deep joy, it got chosen as one of the 9 to be read out on the evening.

That evening was last night.

Look, here's a picture of me doing my thing:

And look, it even got a mention in the Argus.

I was massively nervous beforehand, having never really done that sort of thing before, and in general having a bit of a phobia about speaking in public. But it was a huge buzz. There was something wonderful about sharing my story with other people and hearing them talk about what they liked and the ideas that it gave them. The story took on a whole life of its own, just like stories are supposed to. It made me think: THIS is what I want to do. I felt like a contestant on a TV reality talent show like Masterchef or X Factor ... you know the bit where they always say, "I've had a taster now and I know this is what I want to do for the rest of my life"? Sad, but true.

I turned 40 a month ago. I had expected to have a bit of a head-fuck about it, but didn't. This was partly because my amazing family and friends threw the mother of all surprise parties for me. But it was also partly because I managed to do what I'd been secretly challenging myself to do before I started my 5th decade - to write a book. Ok it's not published, and unlikely to be given the hard data relating to the ratio of books written to books published. But still. It took five long years and a lot of work. No matter what happens now, there are 150,000 words that came out of my brain and tell a story and no one can take away from me.

But last night gave me a real taste of something. A sniff of an identity and some meaning which are far removed from anything else I've ever done.

I had to write a biog about myself to be read out before my reading last night and I joked that I was inspired by The Beatles song Paperback Writer. I used to listen to it when I was 14 or 15 and dream about my life as Tamsin Bishton, writer. And last night it felt like it might not be just a dream. It could be real, if I just hold my nerve and keep letting the words out.

And there was something else really cool about last night. When I looked out at the audience there were a whole bunch of friendly faces looking back at me. People I know who had come along to support me. And I thought: "Wow, look at my friends." It was a brilliant feeling.

So being 40, decade five, has got off to a pretty awesome start. Thank you to the wonderful people around me. I am very grateful.

And for anyone that's interested, here's my story:

The Mermaid on the Train by Tamsin Bishton

The mermaid sat on the train, watching the Sussex countryside flying past the window. She commuted daily from the coast to a job she hated in Croydon. It made her tired, the travelling. But she'd tried living away from the seaside and it was impossible. It was one thing to have given up her life below the waves, to have bid farewell to her sisters, leaving them to their wailing in the brine; but to be beyond the sight and the sound of the waves, the cracking of the rocks as the water rolled over them again and again? No, that she couldn't stand.

And now that he was gone, and she was stuck with legs and feet that seemed to do nothing but ache and grow blisters, she was glad at least about that. As she wandered along the wind-blasted sea front, or dangled her arms over the barriers at the very end of the pier, peering at the murky water below - too cold and dark now to nurture her warm-blooded existence - she consoled herself with the proximity of the vast depths.

She never saw her family though she stared for hours. The water kept its secrets close.

Every day she sat on the train, part of the multitude, commuting to the city.

"You can't just rely on me, you know?" he'd said. "You're a modern woman. You need to be independent and earn your own money. Buy your own dresses and shoes and handbags. It's what women in the 21st century do."

So she'd got herself a job - a pretty good one. She had money to spend, though she hardly knew what to do with it.

"Get your hair done, treat yourself, get pampered" he'd said. "I'd love to see you in some of this kind of underwear." And he'd held up a magazine with a picture of a lady, who wasn't half as pretty as she was, wearing frilly knickers and a push-up bra.

Still she loved him. She’d loved him the moment she'd seen him. Dark hair, dark eyes and lonesome. Mermaids knew the smell of the lonely. He'd been sitting on the beach, throwing stones at an empty plastic beer pot. She hadn't meant to do anything silly, but before she knew it, she'd slithered up the beach to sit beside him and he was resting his head on her cold, wet skin. She stroked him and he pressed his face further into her flesh, his hot skin scorching her. He shook for a while, feverish, and then gently slid into sleep, lying in her arms. His face was so beautiful she'd wanted to cry.

After that they met each evening at the far end of the beach, sheltering behind a worn-down groyne. She learned his name and he learned hers. They kissed. He licked the salt from her skin and she shivered for the first time in her life. She felt a new sensation course through her. Not the thrill of cutting through the waves, or singing with her sisters. A secret pleasure which could only be found when he held her in his arms and looked at her with his dark, sad eyes.

"If you were fully human, you'd have legs and a secret place between them," he'd said. "You could walk to my flat. And then there would be other things that I could do to you. You'd like it."

"Yes," she'd said.

It was hard to think about those days now that she had only train journeys and a life on the land to occupy her. She read books, lost herself in music. She stared at the horizon as the sun came up invisibly beyond the clouds on grey, winter-damned days where it was hard to tell if the night had really ended at all. Sweet moments they had been, folded in his arms on the cold, damp pebbles of the beach.

The physical transformation from mermaid to human had been surprisingly easy. Her mother had wept and her sisters had clung to her, winding their fingers into her hair, begging her not to leave. An older mermaid, not one of her own blood, had warned her of the dangers of living forever among those who were destined to grow old and perish. "You will have to live forever, knowing that your love will die while you will remain. Your pain will not have an end," she whispered through the water. But all she could think of was the promise of a life with her human - together, warm on the land, a place for him to show her how much he loved her. So she'd climbed once more up on to the beach and they'd laid there together under the moon. She'd slept, he'd slept. And in the morning light she'd opened her eyes to find herself a woman. No tail, no scales - but legs and flesh. He wrapped her in a blanket and carried her home to his bed.

Later, as the sun slid back down the sky towards the sea he’d brought her a fried egg sandwich in bed. She'd devoured it with joy. So many new things to discover in this new, dry, warm life.

It took her some time to get used to her feet. And to the loss of her tail. Walking was much harder more awkward than the effortless grace of gliding through the water had been. Air was such a strange place to live a life. But as he had instructed, she joined-in with the daily routine, working nine to five, travelling to the city and back again. She got her hair cut, bought high heels and tights, went out on couple-dates with his friends, danced to the bands he liked.

At night they lay, limbs entwined, happy. He needed to lose himself in her flesh. She loved to be his solace, to comfort him.

"I want to know all the secrets of the sea," he said, staring out of the window towards the beach.

"I find it hard to remember," she said. And it was true. It was all fading into a dream - the days spent with her sisters, singing to the unwary sailors, combing their knotted hair with combs fashioned from shell and pearl.

"I want to see everything - all the wonders of the world," she said, as she sat watching the Discovery channel. She wanted to see mountains and forests, hear the howl of wolves, to stare at the stars overhead in the dark night of the desert.

"You look like a stranger," he said one day when she walked through the door from work. "I liked you better when your hair was wild and natural and your skin was cold and waxy."

She'd wept silently in the bath.

Now that he was gone, and she had nothing but time, she found that she only had the strength to live in the mundane ways. There was nothing wonderful about this dry, airy world anymore.

She still saw him sometimes, of course. Even now. She would go for months at a time, living in a trance, running her life along the tracks that he had helped her place. The weekly rhythm: home, work, home, work. The weekends were spent washing her clothes, tidying her flat, watching TV, staring into the deep, blank ocean.

And then she'd see him right there in front of her, walking just ahead of her on the platform, climbing the stairs up out of the station. She’d know it was him because of the perfect dark hair at the nape of his neck, the soft down she could still feel under her fingertips. It had to be him. No one else had that small mole, the freckles along their jawline. It was him. The dark jumper, the bag slung over his body - a schoolboy with his satchel. He'd come back. She could catch him if she walked a little faster, got a proper view of his face. He was just in reach. He'd turn the corner and by the time she reached it he'd be gone. Over and over it happened.

Each time she was winded by the disappointment. She would grieve all over again in miniature.

His face had been turned away from her in the last moments she spent with him, staring at the sun as it kissed the sea longingly on the horizon. They were on the beach. She was painting her toe nails bright red. He ran down to the edge of the ocean, splashing through the spray, untouched by the cold grip of the water. There was a flash of silver tail, she caught sight of long seaweed hair and heard a snatch of the siren's song. And then silence. He was gone. He hadn't even kissed her goodbye. She'd sat there until long after dark, listening to the waves come chasing up the pebbles then retreating, defeated, back again.

She could sit there forever. He was never coming back.

She liked to flick through women's magazines on the train sometimes when music just got on her nerves and books were too much like hard work. Her favourites were the "real life" stories. Women who triumphed over adversity, unfaithfulness, death, being fat or worse. She wondered what they'd make of her story . . . I gave up a perfect life beneath the waves for my mortal lover on the land - and he paid me back by running off with my sister! It made her smile as the train thundered into a tunnel, under the hillside, towards the sea.

She sat quietly and looked forward to the next time he'd visit her in the turned away heads of the station's busy crowds.