I was born in the picturesque Welwyn Garden City and raised by the internet, a child of stories and music, sarcasm and curiosity, divorce and mental illness, a perpetual misfit incapable of truly crossing into society’s comfortable centre. I arrived the year Whitney Houston brought Dolly Parton’s masterpiece ‘I Will Always Love You’ to the global masses and that would chase me down years later. I began reading and creative writing obsessively from the age of five, and that would also come full circle twenty years on.
Before then, however, I travelled through fiction and poetry to land upon songwriting at the age of ten. I found my home in music during my teens and left literature on a shelf, my short attention span and eager ambition pushing me to explore further and create new things. I left home soon after turning eighteen, following a boy I met on the internet that bred me and seeking the freedom that distance provided. A few years later I would describe my hometown as “the thorn in my side / the memories of a life that don’t feel like mine, anymore / I moved out at just eighteen / somewhere between / ten years old and forty five.” It’s still one of the truest lines I’ve ever written.
In Liverpool, my new stomping grounds, I delved into theories and academia, opening my mind to ideas and people and culture undiscovered. I fell into music journalism accidentally after work experience in PR slipped through the net, and on a whim decided to chase it after graduation. I lived within articles and commentary and the Pandora’s Box of musical expression that such a role provided, but as my mental health worsened and the stress and frustration of the job began to permeate indefinitely, I saw the field as it was stripped bare and realised its ill fit. I was a writer, that much was clear, but I was not a reporter or a journalist. Just as I had abruptly abandoned my lifelong strive for singer-songwriter success in 2011, I left another reincarnation in the dust and let myself unravel in the rubble that remained.
That could have been the end of the story, but it isn’t. From the ashes of my sanity I re-learned myself and the world around me, returning to poetry and songwriting and reaching once more for that shelved literature I ignored for so long. This time, I did so as an adult woman with the breadth of life experience that propels creators forward, and the inspiration poured out of me, unrestricted and unscripted for the first time. I had taken a ten year break from reading and writing fiction but I don’t do anything by halves, and thus my fresh foray into the form was the opening line of a novel I intended to publish. That novel was Escapists and Wanderers, currently in the midst of its second draft and slotting perfectly into the jigsaw of my impatient heart.
These days I write in a way I never have. I still don’t read as much as I should, that I admit, and yet the words have never flowed more freely nor as passionately.
My name is Vickye Fisher and I am a bisexual, feminist, depression and anxiety suffering, minority rights advocating, foul-mouthed, bunny loving, thick-bodied, big-hearted, accepting, fierce, honorary Northerner who knows her own mind and makes reckless life decisions with barely a batted eyelid.
This is my statement of intent. I am a work in progress, and as I climb the remaining weeks to my quarter century, I am excited to see where the next twenty five years take me. I’m sure it will be interesting.