I always imagined that if — one day — my dream came true this would be the portrait I’d paint:

It turns out that reality looks more like this:

When I first moved from Iceland to the UK fifteen years ago I dreamt of two things:

a) Playing the lead in the musical Cats on the West End
b) Writing a book and seeing it on the shelves in Waterstones

Fortunately for fans of musical theatre I was never offered a role in Cats. It turns out that I’ve got the singing voice of a cat — an actual cat — so out of tune that were it locked up in a box even Schrödinger would want it firmly dead.

Today, however, I received in the post an advance copy of the first book I’ve written in English.

As I opened the package from my publisher my family — my husband and two kids — huddled around me. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Even my one year old sensed something momentous was happening. I pulled the book out, slowly, carefully, as if this dream of mine was made of porcelain and would smash to pieces if not handled with due respect.

There it was, white with the title written in red letters: I am Traitor. We stared at the book in what I assumed was awe — that is until my four year old daughter rolled her eyes:

“Why is this not the My Little Pony sticker book you said you were going to buy me from the internet?”

I tried to explain to her how this book was so much better than a My little Pony sticker book. This was Mummy’s book. She wrote it all by herself. It only took her four years and three packets of Diazepam to get it finished.

There was a hint of a smile, a glint in her eye, a spark of excitement. Was it recognition of her mother’s achievement?

“Mummy?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Can I have ice-cream?”

I couldn’t help but snap. “No, you may not have ice-cream.”

The moment — my moment — was over. My daughter descended into a tantrum. My son spilled his milk all over the sofa. My husband’s phone started ringing, he had to go, a work emergency.

What do you do when you realise that your dream has got buried beneath a pile of dirty dishes? What do you do when you realise this is what offspring think of their parents’ hopes and dreams?

Reach for the Sauvignon Blanc? See a shrink?

You start a blog of course.

Hello, world. As the people related to me don’t seem to have the slightest interest in my writing escapades I hope instead to share my journey with strangers on the internet. (That’s not pathetic at all, is it?)

In just over a month’s time my book, I am Traitor, will be out.

I couldn’t be more excited.

I hope you will join me as I look for inspiration for my next book in places like the laundry basket, as I try to turn up to readings without a single spaghetti hoop in my hair… and try not to embarrass myself in general.

Stay tuned — and please stay in touch!

Sif Sigmarsdóttir is an Icelandic author based in London. Her book, I am Traitor, will be published by Hodder in September 2017. You can pre-order it on Amazon . Sif is represented by Sophie Hicks Agency .

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When your dream gets buried beneath a pile of dirty dishes was originally published in Sif’s journal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.