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My name is Heather Heap. Some days I love my name. Some days I hate it. I suppose it’s my dad’s fault. It’s his family name. Mum took his name when they married, but she doesn’t use it for her business which is a hair and beauty salon.
The times I hate it are when people nickname me as Rubbish Heap, Scrap Heap, Scrappy, Dung, Dusty and worse. The times I love it are mostly when I write it down on a finished poem or story. It’s unusual. It sounds like a writer’s name. And I’d love to be a writer.
“You are a writer,” Dad said to me the other day.
“I’m not,” I said.
“You are. You write. Of your own free will.”
“I’m not published.”
“You will be. But you don’t need to be published to call yourself a writer. And you don’t need to earn money from it – you just need to be it and do it.”
“OK Dad,” I said, just to shut him up really.
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