I’m my own worst enemy when it comes to perfectionism. This was never instilled in me as a child. It’s completely self-inflicted. But I think I know what influenced it.

My dad was a painter and decorator. He went to art college as a teenager to learn his craft after gaining an apprenticeship. He set up his own business soon after and made it a success over thirty+ years of hard work and determination. He was even headhunted by Laura Ashley, but declined on account of the work taking him away from his young family. My dad loved his job and was exceptional at it.

As a young child and even into my teenage years and early-twenties, I would sit and watch him for hours, often sat cross-legged amongst dustsheets on the floor as he worked. I remember being told stories of the master craftsman at work, not by him, but by others. How he used to paper the ceilings of grand hotels single-handedly, people stopping to watch the speed and perfection with which he worked. He could seamlessly match even the most intricate patterns together on wallpaper because of his exceptional eye for detail. You’d never see a join, smudges in paint or uneven lines. I remember people sliding their fingers over our home’s unblemished silk-like glossed woodwork. Whether he was decorating a stately home or a tiny bungalow, every job was done with pride and care.

I’d often be plotting stories as I watched him. As the only academic in the household, both my dad and mum always wondered where I got my incessant need to read and write. My dad struggled with his literacy. He liked to read but found writing difficult, and spelling was particularly challenging. In that respect, our crafts are at opposite ends of the spectrum. But there were also similarities.

My dad could look at a room, envisage the end product and make that become a reality. He knew how to create mood and atmosphere and where to draw attention. Detail was as important as the wider picture. And he always instilled in me that preparation was key. He’d know if he was going for contemporary or renaissance, warm and cosy or fresh and spacious. He’d strip a room back to the basic framework so he had a decent foundation to start with, then slowly build it up layer by layer. He had an order to things. He wouldn’t spend hours caulking the coving if he hadn’t yet wallpapered the walls. It was only at the end that he’d go through everything with a fine toothcomb, paying attention to all those small details. Then he’d stand back and accept the job was done.

That has always been one of my biggest problems – knowing when to let go. I guess that’s because I’ve made a lot of mistakes over the years with my writing, not least by rushing or floundering because I didn’t prepare. Sacred Dark, my first attempt at a full-length adult novel, was over 150K after years of massacring it. In the end it was the equivalent of my dad papering over badly prepared walls, painting around pictures hoping no one would lift it to look underneath (yes, he knew someone who did that!), and filling in irredeemable cracks with copious amounts of filler. It doesn’t work. When I get cross at the time I wasted over the years, I remind myself it was time spent trying to hone my craft –invaluable time spent learning from my mistakes. At least I finally recognised when to walk away. I wrote books in-between and have now come back with the fresh eyes for Sacred Dark. Needless to say I’ve got a tingle of excitement about it again.

I’m also excited because I know what works for me now. I mustn’t get so caught up in the preparation that I forget to allow my characters to be spontaneous. For them, and subsequently the plot, to take unexpected routes. I like a framework but not for every detail to be planned – I like ideas coming to me as I write. Writing a story is an adventure. I’d like to always treat it as that. Saying that, I keep to the principles my dad shared with me: work hard, do the best job you can and most of all enjoy it.

Five years ago, my dad passed away with a rare form of cancer: aggressive multiple myeloma. It was the anniversary last weekend. For obvious reasons, I struggled to write this blog post then. He was 48 when he was given a few months to live. He fought for seven years – way beyond the survival rate even the specialist working with him predicated. During those terrifying years of small achievements and painful setbacks, he became a pioneer for research into multiple myeloma, agreeing to try procedures even when no-one knew the full extent of the risks. He watched the friends he’d made undergoing the same treatment pass away one by one, but he wouldn’t give up. He was the last survivor. He knew he might not make it, but like he said, because he kept pushing the limits, one day someone would.

Despite what the years of treatment did to him physically, what I will always remember is the person inside. Someone exceptionally brave who wouldn’t quit. The last time I saw him conscious was his 56^th birthday. He was sat up in his hospital bed and waved me off and told me he’d see me the following week. I had the phone call from my mum the following morning to make the two-hour journey as quickly as I could. I held his hand until the moment they switched off the life-support machine.

A part of me died that day too. The part that believed everything would be okay in the end. Sometimes it isn’t. And you have to learn to live with that. You learn to tolerate the pain of not getting what you want.

I’ll end with telling you that one of my earliest childhood memories is lying on my parents’ bed, singing a song with my dad. It was my favourite as a little girl. You might know it:

Incy Wincy spider climbed up the water spout.

Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.

Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain

And the Incy Wincy spider climbed up the spout again.

I might have lost a part of me that day, but I gained another. It reinforced in me the will not to give up. Not ever. For years I kept my writing to myself because it never felt perfect enough. Self-doubt is so prevalent in us writers because we live in a world of subjection. I’ve no doubt that, now my submissions are underway, I’ve some hard knocks ahead. Right editor at the right time with the right book to hit the right market is quite a feat. And above all, there’s the possibility no editor/agent will think it’s good enough. Am I prepared for that? No. I don’t think any of us are honestly equipped for rejection. But neither am I equipped not to persist. I’m too much of my dad’s girl for that.