Welcome!

I'll pop the kettle on.

I write in a little blue shed I call The Blue House. It is small, and the door sticks, sometimes. I’ve had a little trouble opening it.

If you come in, you’ll find a series of rooms, each holding words-in-progress, each a piece of my head.

One room holds novels in various states of completion. It’s a messy room lined with shelves of books and drafts and journals, as I find my way back to my own work after years in academia, good, purposeful years in which I taught my heart out.

One room holds this academic work, writing on craft and theory created as a lecturer and workshop leader. Here you’ll find a plain desk, long rolls of butcher paper, china cups of Sharpies and black ink micro uni-balls.

One room holds Turn the Page, a writing and wellbeing workbook I am editing. This room has three windows that look out at the world: a pumpkin patch, bare branches, a thin tree in pale blossom, or terracotta pots of sweet-peas, as the season allows.

One room has an old chair, a teapot lamp, and a tower of books waiting to be read, as I find my way back to reading beyond curricula, beyond research - just for me.

One room is magic. It’s dark and candlelit, filled with research, ancestry, and books on the occult as well as my altar and tarot cards, the witch in me.

There are other rooms whose doors are firmly shut, even to me. Or maybe just cracking open, letting in a little light. I live in hope.

Meanwhile, the tea is steeping, the sun is rising or setting, and the dog is fixing me in his hard stare, looking for a treat. The dog has access to every room, of course, as do you. Come on in.