Once upon a time there was a writer who lived in house surrounded by titanic fruit trees. She was a little known writer who wrote mostly for her own pleasure and because, at times, it felt like there was a ravenous word demon roiling inside her. She loved creating worlds of wonder and impossibility, etching out visual and sensual nuances with language. Then one day, because she had a whole lot of other stuff to do, she had to abandon tug-of-war with the demon and wean herself off creative word usage. It was hard going and she missed it dearly, but there was no other quick and easy way to feed her family, and a ten-hour day job didn't leave much energy to play with words. How she longed for the summer, a time of freedom and fruitful work at her ageing laptop. In her notebooks she had been scribbling dreams and visions of other worlds, she had been visited by so many characters that she was beginning to feel her head would explode. The summer inevitably arrived and finally she s...
Musings on the mundane and the macabre and all the oddities in between.