When I was 12, I thought I was a writer. I had such confidence in my little self that would lie on the cold ridged floor of our spare room holding an all-in-one giant version of Lord of the Rings. I even made a little notebook and wrote a whole manuscript, and then dumped it later when I first met the critic inside me (something every writer/artist learns is an invariable part of themselves). At 20, this resolve wavered. There had been so much to study over the last few years and anyway, how did one get an agent or …