WRITING
A brief history of creative writing:
I have been writing poetry since the age of twelve. I had several poems published in our school almanac and my first piece, a play adaption of a short story by Elizabeth Jolley was published in a student literary magazine when I was sixteen.
Since then, I have continued writing, though mostly in a reclusive fashion, publishing a smattering of poems.
About the Author:
I have always loved words. I began reading at the age of three and read everything in sight - the written word was like magic, bringing other people’s stories to life right before my tiny incredulous eyes.
As a young girl I spent hours of school holidays at my father’s small carpet mill and factories.
Hours clambering over three story shelving and scaffolding, scrambling through back rooms, darting into the alleyway and carpark for a quick game of hopscotch in the backstreets of Richmond… The Skipping Girl looming against the Skyline as we drove to The Terminus for “a quick pot” and a glass of lemonade.
I made good use of the photocopier and highlighters, writing, drawing, printing and colouring in my creations from the age of four or five. Fluro rainbows dance across snippets of prayers and church hymns and fairy stories and other more secular thoughts that tumbled from my infant mind.
I was lost to this world of words.
We owned the most fabulous “Bookshelf” - it was a wall of books that was continuously topped up with hand-me-downs, by charity shop finds, school fetes, kindly neighbours, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins - family and friends and the odd “Brand New” book purchase from the school’s scholastic book sales or, very very occasionally, from a visit to a beautiful bookshop.
These rare visits were a great joy but to my young mind, a book was a book and those tatty pages in the bottom of the local donation bin held as much joy for my young self as a week of Sundays to read them all in! I have always loved books - the stories they held but also the smell and craftsmanship.
I still have many of my treasured favourites among my home library.
A treasured memory is how many a Sunday we would climb into “The Big Bed” with my parents and, in his gruff German accent, my Father would read us stories from a copy of The Brother’s Grimm.
I was always writing my own fairytales in class, dreaming of faraway places…