Something happens to people, sometimes, when you admit you are a writer. They go quiet. Or they ask strange questions, like: what do you write? (words). Have you been published (yes). What is your book about (umm, people?) Or they want to give you something: ‘This is stranger than fiction, and really happened to me. But you can use it for a story if you like’ (thank you, but if it’s not believable in life it certainly won’t be in fiction.)
Writers don’t live in garrets any more and, apart from a few tragedy-prone or ersatz poets, they don’t wander around wearing black sweaters and jeans with a beret pulled over bad hair cuts.
We live in houses and communities – these are mine
they grow things and have pets – this is Luka, one of my furry mates who likes to help
We like to have our own small space somewhere quiet with lots of light and air
So, writers are people who, like everyone, have something they do well. We write, we read, we teach. We are part of your community in the same way as are accountants, doctors, lawyers, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. Well, maybe not the last, in this century!
And, why the ocean in the header picture? Because the ocean is calming, omnipotent, all-powerful, embracing – and the smell of salt on the wind is home.
