I started writing at around nine years old, I'm told. I made a small book for my mother about animals in the wild. I had never seen animals in the wild. I am now smart enough to acknowledge that we should write about what we know, but nobody said we couldn't also make up a bunch of things we've never experienced. It's this that makes writing such magic for me - the ability to conjure up anything, anyone, anywhere, whenever I want.
Painting was always my other love, as you'll see by the variety of art at this site, but writing is the thing that gets me up each morning. Regardless of all my other interests, I always find wonder in the written word, both mine and others, and can't imagine a life without them.
I’ve been drawn to old houses as long as I can remember - the mystique of them, the vibrations I believe exist in them, both good and bad. I’ve owned a lot of houses, all over, and I’m never satisfied with simply renting, although I’m currently doing it. I need to add my own touch to a house, make it uniquely mine, because I love to decorate and garden. As a die-hard environmentalist, I've always fancied running an organic smallholding in a more-or-less self-sufficient way, although I don't know if I'll ever do it. I would have far more animals than I have now (two cats are about the limit for my apartment); companion animals are essential in my life.
Not surprisingly, my present novels (and a lot of my paintings) feature houses as major players. I can think of several unexplored plot ideas that also will involve houses. Perhaps I'll come to be known as the house novelist and publishers will consider a “house” genre in the future. I know there are others who have this same odd obsession.
Whichever country (and I've lived in a few), whatever house, published writer or not, recognized or ignored, I’ll continue to write and paint. And I'll try to pursue a life as green, green as an English meadow...