Growing up, I never really thought about writing. I was always creative, sure, but my imagination was more practical. As an art teacher, I use creativity daily, but I’ve always been good with my hands—building, fixing, making things. My brothers used to joke, “Terence will be a handyman when he grows up.” 

That said, my first brush with writing came in primary school. Every other Thursday, in 5th and 6th class, we had to stand in a circle and read our original poetry aloud. If deemed good enough, your poem made it into The Book—a tradition dating back to the 1960s. Some fantastic poems came out of those often nerve-wracking Wednesday night writing sessions! I had two poems make the grade, one about my pigeons and another about a pet mouse. Even then, animals were always on my mind. 

Still, I’d be embarrassed to call myself a writer, a real writer. Writers are people like Lee Child and Roddy Doyle, who make you sweat with suspense or laugh out loud. I recently read a book by Robert Galbraith and thought, “This is brilliantly written!” Only to find out—inside the back cover—that Galbraith is a pseudonym for J.K. Rowling. Of course, it was brilliant! 

But here I am, three books in, with children who love them. So how did it all start? 

A Flood, A Fish, and A Story 

In February 2019, after a night of heavy rain, our garden flooded—not biblical, but enough to cause a bit of panic. Our garden is low-lying and often takes runoff from the surrounding fields. At the time, we had a pond sunk into our decking outside my mancave, home to our goldfish and a few pinkeens (sticklebacks). 

That morning, as I walked down to check, I saw our pond had disappeared beneath the water. Disaster. Had the fish escaped? 

Thankfully, I had wire mesh over the pond to keep the kids safe—it also happened to be just fine enough to keep the fish in. But as I stood there, boots sinking into the muddy ground, I saw one of our newest fish, Googly Eyes, swim up through the mesh and disappear under the decking. 

I had no time to deal with it—I had to get to school. I texted Steph, asking her to check, but there was no sign of him. The boys were devastated. 

That evening, after a late parent-teacher meeting, I rushed home, grabbed a torch, and went straight to the garden. The flood had receded. There was no water left on the lawn. Hope was gone. I searched for his body, assuming a cat or magpie had gotten to him first. 

Then, just as I was about to give up, I spotted him— under the decking, in a puddle no bigger than a fist. Googly Eyes had somehow survived. 

I ran to the shed, grabbed my screw gun, and started lifting the decking. In my mind, I could hear Steph saying, “Not the decking!” But there was no time for that. Moments later, Googly was back in the pond, unharmed. 

That night, during our usual bedtime story (we were working through Tom McCaughren’s Fox series at the time), one of the boys asked, “What do you think Googly did all day?” 

So, I made up a story. I told them about Googly’s great adventure—how he met and chatted with the hens, pigeons, canaries, and guinea pigs. I added a twist at the end for suspense. The boys loved it. 

The next day, I wrote it down. 

From Story to Book 

For months, I worked on illustrations, drawing key moments from the story. When it was finally finished, I sat on it—for a year. 

I sent the manuscript to publishers like O’Brien Press and Penguin, but they weren’t accepting illustrated books—they were too costly to print. Still, I believed in Googly’s story and I liked my illustrations. So, I decided to publish it myself. 

To fund the printing, I sold a bass guitar and amp that I’d barely used. I didn’t make much on them, but it was a start. Eventually, I had enough to print a small batch. I was nervous—what if they didn’t sell? 

Thankfully, they did. And with the money from that first batch, I printed more. That’s how I’ve funded all my books—each one paying for the next. I don’t make a profit, but they sustain themselves. And honestly, isn’t that the dream? 

The Journey Continues 

Now, three books in, I’m working on my fourth. It’ll take time, but I love the process. 

Writing wasn’t something I planned, but sometimes, the best stories start in the most unexpected ways—like a tiny fish in a flooded garden, waiting to be found.