Shari Low

I blame spontaneity, a short attention span and the fact that everything seems like a great idea after a few glasses of wine for the fact that life’s never been dull.
I’ve lived in Glasgow, Ireland, Amsterdam, Shanghai, London, New York and Hong Kong. I’ve sold fire-extinguishers door to door, been a receptionist, managed night clubs, built health clubs, flogged litter bins, promoted toilet rolls (I was big in toilet rolls – a feat that occasionally makes me well up with pride), directed an international sales force, controlled corporate satellite communications and dived in a swimming pool filled with chocolate on live television. I couldn’t make this up.
I got engaged to more men than Joan Collins, until I then met a guy I hated on sight, changed my mind thirty seconds later, and then agreed to marry him after two dates. Fourteen years later we’re still together. And it’s all down to love, respect and the bloody disgraceful cost of good divorce lawyers. On March 13th 2000 I got my first publishing deal at 4.10pm. At 4.19pm I found out I was pregnant. Two life-changing events in one day. Hello maternity smocks and big knickers. My first son, Callan was born in November 2000, and What If? was published in Feb 2001. The sequel, Why Not?, hit the shelves in September 2002, five months after the birth of my second son, Brad. I’m fervently hoping this pattern of book & baby every year doesn’t continue as I intend to have a long literary career and am therefore in danger of becoming Ma Walton.
From the day I told a careers officer that I wanted to be a novelist and he laughed out loud, I was determined that I’d one day I’d live in a house in the country, where I’d churn out bonk-busters in the mornings then spend the afternoons eating jam pieces and watching Top Cat with my kids. Now? We go through a lot of jam and I can sing the Top Cat theme tune backwards. But I’ve never quite got round to writing that bonkbuster.
My third book, Double Trouble was released in 2004. Thankfully, the pregnancy tests were negative. This did lead to a stint in LA smoozing movie companies that were thinking about turning one of my books into a movie. Oh, the windswept glamour of it all… until nothing got made and we ended up back in Glasgow with nothing but a suntan, amazing memories and a credit card bill that could sink the economy. I now live near Glasgow in a happy bubble of snot, muck and slobbery kisses from we boys – thus the comfortable shoes, hair like a burst couch and wardrobe filled with so many man-made fibres it would melt in a heatwave. Although I live in a house awash with testosterone, that is balanced by the group of eight girlfriends who have been in my life (and usually horizontal on my sofa) since I was a teenager. They used to be my moral conscience, support system and drinking partners – now they’re great material for the weekly column I write for the Daily Record, Scotland’s national tabloid. Oh, and I also have a sitcom in development with the BBC – the crossed fingers make it difficult to type.