As a young girl, I had dreams of the highest creative expectations. I have strong recollections of a wee Dannii Lee toddling around on a homemade stage, dancing the dance of youth and recreating Madonnas 'Vogue' with all the innocence of an eight year old girls vision of becoming the worlds greatest pop star.

With my 'Mowgli-esque' haircut, cotton crop tops and mini high top converse trainers, I would wale every word to Michael Jackson's 'Earth song' whilst holding on to two dining chairs for fear of being blown away by my own imaginary gale.

Whilst childish innocence turned into teenage rebellion, my creative impulses remained strong against the temptations and afflictions of adolescent misfortune. As my once naive mind and childish fantasies turned into woes and worries of popularity, exams and boys, so did the purity of my young musical icons turn into those of rock stars, metal gods and post-punk pilgrims. Much to my poor mothers despair.

And so came musical rebellion.

With my coming of age leading me into the world of rock and roll, came the knowledge of artistic freedom of expression. Like the rush of new found hormones coursing through my ever changing young body, I began to discover new pathways within musical genres and careers and found myself overindulging in everything this new world had to offer.

Gone was the fresh face and cropped tops, gone was the pure innocence behind my 'HeeeHEEE's and 'OWWWWS'. No longer 'Striking a pose', I tore down my posters of MJ and Madonna, and replaced them with the grotesque portraits of Marilyn Manson. Again, much to my poor mothers despair.

My new journey into this fascinating and unknown world of musical mutiny, took me from goth horror pop, to punk protests and finally into the gorgeously melancholy world of grunge, where i stayed for many years. Oh how I would lay for hours with threadbare jeans and unwashed hair, weaving my soul through the astral-planes of musical woes written by men a decade before my entrance into this life.

Like every other 'unique' teenager before me, I would believe that Cobain, Staley and Vedder had written every note and word with a clairvoyant image of my teenage self's proverbial angst.

With my undying love for three chord guitar parts and over dramatic melodies still coursing through my veins, came the end of my education. Through some beautiful miracle I passed the dreaded G.C.S.E's and embarked onto the long and crooked road of the music business.

After a short stint at musical journalism and photography (in which I thankfully had some choice pieces published in small music magazines), I fell into the world of live music promotion. So passed two years of running shows, partying with rock stars and travelling the country amongst sweaty boys armed with tight jeans and guitars. This period of my life is a different story all together, filled with many anecdotes and a brief period of myself on the stage. But that dear readers, is a highly complex story to be saved for another day of blogging.

As quickly as I had turned from a fresh faced pop-wannabe into a troubled teenage delinquent, I approached my adult years with the same fierce love for music I had held for all those years. However, one thing had changed. I met a boy. And this boy was a musician. Now, as any girl connected to a musician will tell you, it is not all glamour and rock and roll. Front men are often front men because they hold an ugly need to be in the spot light, showered with adoration and with the knowing that they are the centre of many a poor young girls tunnel visioned world.

Consequently, my own creative dreams and ambitions took a back seat as I spent many years tending to the delicate garden that is a relationship with a failed front man. In an attempt to not portray any bitterness on my blog, the less said the better, but after years of stifled creativity, I found myself (thankfully) alone, and free to once again nurture the fading embers of my love for the arts.

Now a fully fledged '20-something', life is very different. Whilst over the last 18 months I have taken the time to write, record and perform, the dream that once was is destined to suffocate in a an overgrown woodland of rent, bills and 9-5.

And so, after I cover up my tattoos, comb my boring brown hair and pour myself into a two piece suit every morning, I follow the flock onto public transportation at 8am sharp every weekday, and I remember those young dreams. I remember the homemade stage and the hairbrush microphone, I remember the first guitar and the beautifully odd haircuts. I remember the cramped and smelly transit vans in which I would call home for several weeks on end and I curse the backbreaking office chair in which I must sit for 9 hours every day.

In my mid-20's, my creations are less 'soulful melody' and more 'excel spreadsheet'. Aware of my own mortality and seeing 30 approaching in the (far?) distance, I refuse to allow my creativity remained stifled. With a little more sense, and perhaps more knowledge, I will pull out my guitar from the depths of my cupboard, dust away the cobwebs of my inquisitive, journalistic desires and promise myself this:

Whenever I am not creating a spreadsheet, paying a bill, or cleaning my flat, I will sit down and create a song, a blog, a painting or a poem, and allow myself for a few moments to be that person I dreamed of when I was a young girl.