The first time I was asked to write for a ‘real’ publication as a ‘real’ writer, I was sat on a veranda in Milan with a Golden Retriever named Keem.
For weeks, I’d been indulging in wood-fired pizzas and home-cooked pasta and pesto, living with an animated Italian host family. Far from home, in the heat of the Milanese rain, I could be whoever and whatever I wanted.
I decided I was a writer.
Over the next few years, I wrote articles for different publications and businesses, started a popular blog and eventually found myself managing the communications department of a charity in the North of England.
But a year in, I realised the lengthy commute and the demands of the role were taking too much time from my toddler.
I imagined a day that I worked for myself, managed my own schedule and made tons more money (let’s be honest), so I could be the present, hands-on business mum that I wanted to be.
I left my job on a Friday, and by Monday I was sat in a windowless basement working with my first InkHouse client.
