A Smidge More...
Although small, I was once much tinier indeed.
As a child, I found refuge in books. I could read by the age of four - thanks to my dad.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table, watching him print out simple sentences in a pink exercise book. These sentences soon became stories that we wrote together.
Words have always flowed through my veins. From those days writing stories with my dad, to the trips we would take to the library each week. There I would tuck myself into a cushioned corner and whirl away to wonderland, my mind dancing amongst forests and folklore, fields and fairies. That was happiness to me.
Then 'life' happened. I grew up (sort of). I lost my mum one week before my eighteenth birthday and the ground beneath my feet cracked a little. I felt that if I didn't get busy 'doing' and 'achieving', I would be swallowed up.
So I got on with it. University, the 'UK' thing, travel, serious relationship, marriage, mortgage, career.
Tick, tick, tick.
I was doing fine thank you very much. Until my nana passed away. And then a year later, so did my nonna. Suddenly all this sadness flooded from me and over me in great consuming waves. I felt my mum's loss all over again and to stop myself sinking, I grabbed hold of a pencil and I started writing. And for some reason, I found myself writing kids books.
I found my tribe too. Beautiful bookish types who viewed the world through the same lens as me. People who were delicate but determined, creative yet cautious and who were ultimately bound together by their love of children's literature.
So this is me. I'm a writer. A writer of journals, memoirs, picture books and a middle grade series.
A writer who grew up on words and was ultimately saved by them.
A writer who is still a kid, writing stories at her kitchen table.