For every woman who has ever wondered if it’s too late to begin again.
I write stories about ordinary women finding extraordinary courage. Here you’ll find my novels, reflections on life, and a quiet place where choosing yourself is never something you need permission to do.
I suppose I should introduce myself again.
There are already a few words about me on this website, but this whole Vivian Hart thing has grown rather more than I expected it to.
The books.
The website.
Social media.
Apparently, I’m even making little videos now.
All of that is relatively new to me.
Writing isn’t.
I’ve been writing for years. Long before I thought about publishing anything, I wrote. Originally with pen and paper in notebooks, the old-fashioned way, and later on laptops, in documents with completely unhelpful names that made perfect sense when I saved them and absolutely no sense years later.
Writing has always been something I do.
A release, I suppose. A way of taking all the things going around in my head and putting them somewhere else for a while.
I love words. I love what happens when you put the right ones together.
Sentences. Paragraphs. Questions especially.
I love questions because one question invariably leads me to another, and before I know it I’ve disappeared down a rabbit hole that began with something perfectly ordinary.
It’s how a question about photographs became a piece about whether moments need an audience.
It’s how somebody saying “65 is the new 40” occupied my mind for the rest of the afternoon.
I notice ordinary things and then, apparently, refuse to leave them alone.
And please don’t judge me for this…
I also like forms.
I know.
Forms.
There’s something wonderfully certain about them. They ask a question. There’s a box. You put the answer in the box. Done.
Although occasionally I do find myself staring at a question thinking, Why exactly do you need to know that?
Or wanting to write, That depends.
But that’s probably another piece waiting to happen.
For years, most of what I wrote was just for me.
Stories. Thoughts. Bits of conversations. Characters. Ideas.
Some things became almost complete novels. Some have a beginning, a middle and an end but very little in between. Some stop halfway through because another idea arrived and apparently couldn’t wait its turn.
Then, about two years ago, I finally changed my laptop.
I’d had my old one for about fourteen years.
My sons had been suggesting for quite some time that perhaps it was time for a new one.
Eventually, even I had to admit they might have a point.
So I bought a new laptop.
We struggled.
It wouldn’t do things the way I expected it to. Buttons I’d known for fourteen years had apparently moved without leaving a forwarding address. There were new things appearing on the screen that I didn’t understand and certainly hadn’t invited.
I missed my old laptop.
It understood me.
But slowly, over time, we did bond.
And actually, if I hadn’t finally made that change, I might never have discovered quite how much writing I’d accumulated.
Before wiping the old laptop, I thought I’d better have one last look through it.
And that’s when I found years of myself sitting there.
Short stories I’d forgotten writing.
Almost-finished novels.
Characters I’d abandoned halfway through their lives, which seems rather careless now I think about it.
Pages and pages of thoughts.
Story arcs.
Beginnings.
Endings.
Questions.
An extraordinary amount of writing I’d created simply because, at the time, I needed or wanted to write it.
And I think that was when something began to shift.
I started gathering it together, looking at it properly, and eventually wondered:
What exactly am I saving all this for?
I don’t have a particularly profound answer for why I decided to start publishing.
Perhaps I’ve simply reached the age of:
If I don’t do it now, when exactly am I planning to?
So I did.
And now here we are.
The strange thing is, I’m discovering that publishing isn’t actually the part that matters most to me.
Of course I want people to read my books. I’m an author. It would be slightly unfortunate if I didn’t.
But what I’ve discovered I really love is when somebody tells me about one line.
One sentence that made them stop.
Something a character said that made them think, Yes. That’s exactly it.
Something they recognised.
Something that made them laugh because they do it too.
A moment when, for a little while, they stepped inside something I’d written and found a piece of themselves already there.
I love that.
Because I don’t write to teach people how to live.
I’m certainly not qualified for that.
I’ve lived a full life.
I’ve loved people.
I’ve raised children.
I’ve worked.
I’ve got things right.
I’ve got things spectacularly wrong.
I’ve changed my mind.
I’ve changed myself.
And I’m still changing.
I think that’s probably where Vivian Hart comes from.
Not from having answers.
From being interested in the questions.
The novels allow me to explore them through women and stories — love, sex, desire, relationships, ageing, mistakes, starting again and all the complicated things women don’t stop feeling simply because they’ve accumulated birthdays.
And here, in my Thoughts, I get to wander off in slightly different directions.
Friendship.
Getting older.
The people we meet in passing.
Jelly Tots.
Sex.
Supermarket car parks.
Apparently nothing is safe.
I don’t write because I have all the answers.
I try to make sense of the world around me with words.
Sometimes seriously.
Sometimes with humour.
Often both.
And perhaps somewhere in something I write, you’ll find a sentence that belongs particularly to you.
Not because I put it there for you.
Because you brought your own life to it and recognised something.
I’ve felt that.
I do that.
I thought it was only me.
Those are the moments I write for now.
I don’t particularly want to tell you what to think.
I’d much rather write something that makes you think.
Or makes you laugh.
Or occasionally makes you wonder why on earth you’re still reading about a grown woman’s relationship with Jelly Tots.
You’re welcome to take what means something to you and leave what doesn’t.
I’ll keep writing either way.
I’ve been doing it for years.
The only difference now is that I’ve finally let somebody else read it.
Outside of writing, my greatest happiness is found in ordinary moments.
A quiet cup of tea.
The first light of the morning.
Fresh flowers on the table.
A packet of Jelly Tots.
Time spent with my grandchildren.
The conversations that happen in silence when you’re simply watching the world go by.
Those little moments have taught me something I wish I’d learned years ago.
Life isn’t measured by the extraordinary occasions.
It’s made up of ordinary Tuesdays.
The small things we often rush past are usually the ones we remember most.
That’s the heart of everything I write.
Whether you’re visiting for the first time or returning after reading one of my books, I’m so glad you’re here.
Here you’ll find:
• Reflections on life, courage, and becoming yourself.
• Behind-the-scenes moments from my writing life.
• News about my novels and upcoming projects.
• Thoughts that don’t always belong in books, but still deserve a place to be shared.
• A growing community of readers who believe it’s never too late to begin again.
I hope this becomes a place you enjoy returning to.
Every story I’ve written begins with a simple question.
What happens when a woman finally chooses herself?
Whether you’re discovering The Last Chapter of Me, Circling the Flame or beginning The Season of Herself, I hope you find characters who remind you that healing isn’t always dramatic, courage can be quiet, and the next chapter is never decided by your age.
Perhaps one of those stories will feel as though it was written just for you.
