When Joanne Rowling sat in a dreary train trundling from Manchester to London, the last thing in her mind was possibly writing. Her marriage had broken down some years before, she had a daughter, Jessica, whom she had to support, her mother was battling multiple sclerosis; Joanne herself had moved to Edinburgh, previously, to be with her sister, but had been diagnosed with clinical depression. She had even contemplated doing away with her life altogether.
Now, sitting in a four hours delayed train, she was wondering if suicide had not, after all been the perfect solution, in many ways. She had a flat in name, but there was barely enough money for her needs. Seven years after graduating from university, she saw herself as the biggest failure she knew. Which was when the image of a boy, wearing spectacles, and with a jagged scar on his forehead, came to her. For no clear reason, the idea grew within her that he was a wizard called....
