NEVER TOO OLD TO BE YOUNG AGAIN

I am a seventy-four year old grandmother who has been writing stories since my children were small. I loved reading as a child and regularly ran home the three-quarters of a mile from school to read my new Rupert book or the next chapter of a ‘Famous Five’ story. The pleasure I had, immersing myself in the lives and adventures of others became a love of writing. Imagination is a wonderful thing. If the source of a story is an acorn then the imagination is the soil, the sun and the rain that combine to make it grow into a glorious tree.
‘The Bridge Makers’ grew from visits to a ruined water mill nestling in a hidden valley.
‘The Secret of Fiddler’s Wood’ grew from a love of forests and ancient trees – and the stone dragons on a church porch.
‘The Mouse in the Teapot’ grew from a handful of acorns, stories told to me by an aunt.
‘The Red Shawl’ (currently in production) grew from a visit to a twelfth century Benedictine priory where, as a ten-year old, I enjoyed a wonderful feast at the refectory table used by the nuns who once lived there.
The ‘acorns’ are everywhere: words, objects, buildings, the things people say, eccentric characters and colourful names. Septimus Knott, Gertie Grimshank, Marzipan, Shoobert Dabb and Reginald O’Deary-Leary are just a few. Each has its own story.
I write essentially for children, for I believe that journeys we make as children into magical and imaginary worlds stay with us forever and the places and characters we loved can be visited again and again. I also believe that a good children’s book can be enjoyed by all.
Through books, the child in us lives on – and I am all for that .

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