Creative writing, or even just writing, is an art form that I have always admired. I spent my childhood engrossed in the mystical and magical world of Harry Potter, using reading and writing to escape my own world I was living in.

As a child I would copy out fact books about animals (who does that? So bizarre). I remember a distinct memory of writing out information about giraffes and looking up to see my Mum checking on me. At University I devoured the texts, plays, and novels my lecturers requested me to read, discussing the theory behind the time of writing, the philosophical or political landscape it was written in, or even the stability of the mind of the writer. I took a module in creative writing and then subsequently got distracted by producing, presenting and editing my own TV shows for student TV.

I haven’t made the time for writing for quite a while; I guess I could use the excuse of once again, being distracted. But a few colleagues and mentors of mine who are published authors (small flex) have told me all I really need to do is to make sure I write twenty minutes a day. Twenty minutes a day and it will help you achieve what you want to achieve.

It might be strange to admit it, but despite working in a creative industry, doing creative work, I don’t get much of an opportunity to write creatively. Hear me out.

When I’m reading the news, I’m editing the writing to see how I can get the story across accurately, and editorially and legally sound, with the shortest number of words, all in layman’s terms. With the audio, I am looking for the best bit of audio that captures the most interesting point of the story, or the most significant, and then writing around the audio.

As a reporter, I am similarly telling the story in a conversational way in a short and succinct manner and once again, accurately. The creative part is knowing what information to keep in and what information to leave out or adjusting my tone or inflection at certain parts of the broadcast, to reflects moments of change or varying emotion.

When I write for BBC News, articles are impartial, balanced and are based on fact. They are straight to the point and are rarely features or opinionated. When I produce documentaries or present programmes, it is a different type of creativity, I’m using sound effects and music to move a story on, transport the listener to a specific location, or build a certain emotion. I’ll never forget the File on 4 I produced which was all about anti-social behaviour and my editor told me, “it needs more sound effects”. I layered sound effect over sound effect so when we next listened together, he could hear the rustling of the leaves, the chants of the youths, the footsteps on the grass, the passing of a train, so he could imagine the location as I had carefully audibly painted it. Scripting documentaries or programmes is a different type of creativity, once again choosing what information to keep in and what to take out, when to introduce a character, when to move onto the next one, how much attention to detail to add and ensuring it is balanced, fair and impartial throughout.

So when an opportunity to join creative writing workshops came via a carers group I am part of, I jumped at the opportunity. Regular headspace once a week to pause and write about anything and everything? To describe random and bizarre objects? To listen to other people who have similar experiences as me and admire their work? To write an ode about my love for hash browns? That time every week reminded me how much I love this art form.

Here’s a little something we had to write about, an everyday object near to us and then describe the passing of time or seasons.

I know I’m important to her. She uses me often – usually a few times a week. I stand proud, naked and bare, ready to be of service when she’s ready. My long arms and slender legs embrace what she decides to give me. I’ve seen it all. The denim shorts and skimpy bikinis that hang. Then a period of nothing. Followed by unusual meetings and greetings of items, late and night, tired and rushed, early in the morning, tired and rushed, so many my arm’s can’t contain them all. Every nook, every cranny, every rung, items nestled next to each other, jostling for position. Colourful jumpers, thick trousers, blankets in my arms. The erratic meetings of glitzy dresses with sparkles and sequins, jumpers with festive greetings. I stood waiting patiently for her – the same cycle of loose tracksuits and baggy t shirts on rotation. I was there for her. Soon sports tops, gym leggings and sports bras returned, she had her energy back. Outlandish dresses and loud tshirts followed, reunited in my arms, I welcomed them back like long lost friends. It had been some time since we had seen each other.

Did you guess what it was? It was a clothing horse for my laundry! The seasons of summer, winter, heartbreak and recovery alongside the item.

I hope it has inspired you in some way.

When I used to facilitate workshops focusing on inspiring creativity, I would highlight creativity comes in kinds of forms, choosing what to make for dinner from the remnants of your kitchen cupboard is creative, choosing a coordinated outfit is creative.

I hope if you have a job that doesn’t allow you to be as creative as you would like, after reading this today, you have been a little inspired to be more creative.

It’s a phrase I share on my social media videos because I want to be clear with anyone watching that yes, I enjoy sharing other people’s stories, but I also love sharing my own too, and honestly, I have quite a few. I’ve been told to write a book, so I guess this Substack is an ode to that idea – or should I say, a stepping stone to that plan.

I’ve worked in the media industry for the last ten years as a presenter, reporter, journalist, documentary maker, investigative journalist, writer, producer and broadcaster. It’s quite the mouthful being a jack of all trades, but I’ve enjoyed embracing each new role with enthusiasm. Despite each position using a slightly different set of skills, I feel I’ve stepped into every role well, like an actress slipping into the shoes of a new character, each time.

Be a commercial radio presenter and hype up your chance to win big money on the Breakfast show and listen to new music? Yep. Be a talking head sharing embarrassing stories as an on-air producer? Sounds good. Report live in the field taking on silly challenges or on a serious breaking news story like a stabbing? I’d love to. Read the news, report on the traffic or broadcast the weather forecast? Sure. Present historical current affairs storytelling programmes? Yes! Report for a YouTube channel on varied events across the capital or gathering voxpops with the public? Yes. Report for TV in a local area on my own original journalism? Done. Act as a voiceover and actor for programmes? Sure. Step into the role as a serious investigative journalist? No problem. Go on air as a talking head/guest sharing my poor record of dating or talking solo travel? Easy. Report on the biggest news story of the day? Yes! Present a documentary I’ve produced myself on a subject close to me? Sure. Produce, present, edit, distribute and promote my own podcast? Of course.

It’s not just radio, TV and digital I have experience as a storyteller in, but the online and workshop space as well. I’ve written balanced news articles filled with original journalism for BBC News, features sharing my own personal traumatic experiences for tabloids and opinion pieces for broadsheets.

As a workshop facilitator I’ve facilitated workshops on storytelling, podcasts, social media, media and the arts, various drama skills, Shakespeare, Roman history, and even given talks on confidence and “being too much”.

You are always told to find your niche. But what if your skillset is so varied you aren’t sure? What if you’ve adjusted yourself to fit into so many spaces, chasing fixed term contract after fixed term contract, that you’ve kinda lost your direction?

Across all the roles and jobs I’ve had in the last ten years, I know communication, broadcasting and original journalism are embedded into each one.

I guess my specific interest in life – or should I say niche – really is inspiring stories from incredible people who have overcome hardship - and highlighting injustice, as I’ve had a few challenges myself. In particular, I’m drawn to stories of women from around the world doing amazing things, because I am a feminist, a traveller of over 60 countries, a solo backpacker since I was the age of 18, and a supporter of mental health, but all of these interests are fairly well trodden ground by journalists.

So what makes me so unique? Perhaps it really is that I am a storyteller by trade and by nature. That I’ve made storytelling my profession and I spend my spare time, doing the same – whether that’s talking to strangers in the street, sharing my trials and tribulations of life on social media, or even storytelling on stage.

I’m not always on the hunt for stories; it’s just naturally the way I am. My friends have told me, “you could talk to a brick wall” and I agree with them. Maybe it’s because I am an open person, I’m always willing to share stories about myself, or listen with empathy and no judgement, which leads people to open up to me. I’ll never forget the New Years Eve when a stranger poured his heart out to me about his Dad’s HIV diagnosis that he didn’t want to tell his friends about but felt like he could tell me, or the individual sharing inside knowledge about a leak of a huge organisation at a wedding party, or a woman sharing her experiences of sexual assault with me in the queue to the toilet.

To conclude my first post on my Substack, unlike my website which is filled with travel recommendations or used as a portfolio for my work, this will be a place of raw unfiltered storytelling, a place where I report on things that I believe are important and haven’t been commissioned elsewhere. A place where I am not sharing curated highlights, but the stories behind the fleeting moments in time, the vulnerable emotions behind the headlines, and the things that have shaped me to be the person I am today.

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