I grew up in a garden in a bayside suburb of Queensland, Australia, where I hid and told stories to ferns and weeds alike. Story gave me something to hope in and a way to escape the traumas of my childhood. Eventually, I did unexpected things like get older and teach primary school. There I read stories to children like their lives depended on it. To this day I am quite sure that lives do depend on stories and stories on lives.
The first whisperings of my own story was from that forgotten child I once was. I found writing in a very dark place. When all of life was a downpour, the gift of writing story was the creation of a place to heal and to overcome. Stories were my reconnection. The hint or a trail back to who I was.
My Chihuahua was bought for me during this time. Her name is Lion. Yes. Lion. A big-hearted, brave thing who has no idea she’s only pocket-sized. She has been my loyal writing buddy for the past nine years.
Today I am happily writing my next book from a small rural township in Australia. My hope is that through my words I might be blessed enough to champion others into wild acts of bravery and self-love. My Chihuahua, husband, three sons and the fact that a book can be born out of the ashes of my past are all the reasons I need to believe in magic.