For me, the writing life has never been a choice.

Ever since I could hold a crayon, I have had the experience of words surrounding me, fluttering to and fro, caged within a place I cannot comprehend, living things, like birds. Lost, lonely, unheard words that can only come to life through the attention, time, and effort of a writer who listens.

It seems I am a good listener.

So they flock to me, crying to be freed from their imprisonment - where they have been abandoned and forgotten, fading away from disuse. I unpick the chaos and turn those lost words, themes, and emotions into something…relatable.

If this writer could ever be described by a single word, it would be diligent.

Even if I am tired, or have absolutely nothing in mind to say, I let the words flow through me, without resistance. And they appear on my screen, precisely as it is happening now. A mystery to me. A wonder at times. The words are kind to me, perhaps because I am kind to them, my little neglected bird-like words beating their wings against the corners of my mind. I try not to think about it too much, for fear I might break something fragile and precious.

Instead, I just write.

Sometimes it’s nothing more than a stream of consciousness posted on social media, an in-the-moment snapshot of what it is to be alive in today’s society with all its pleasures and subsequent terror…or it’s a poem, a short story, a blog post, an article, or, at times, it’s the months-long determination of gathering up one hundred thousand stray words and bringing them to life in a novel.

The words especially like that. They love to be crafted into stories. They snuggle up against the characters, the world, the tension, and the conflict. They positively revel in becoming stories. And so, I write stories, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. If I don’t, an unusual sadness begins to permeate me, a sense of grief, as if those trapped words and I are somehow entwined, and by not writing, I realize I am both the jailor and the prisoner.

Writing, for me, is not a choice. It’s a requirement of my existence. If I were to stop writing completely, I suspect I would go mad. The words would overwhelm me, and I would simply collapse into them, to wander winding corridors of untold stories, silenced forever. This will never happen. To not write, would be like not breathing.

I must write. And so I do.

If you are reading this, you may already enjoy my writing, and I thank you for your support - but the words thank you, too. Because what we create in our minds becomes real in some way, somewhere. Writing is a strange kind of alchemy that gives life to something built on the foundation of words that would not exist without you, the reader.

So together we create. A glorious triad of words, writer, and reader. Together, we make something out of…nothing.

Welcome to The Writing Life, the place where you will be able to get up close and personal with me, the writer behind the words, and get to know me outside of social media, press articles, and posts about books.

I am a digital nomad, a life I discovered in the aftermath of a very difficult divorce that led me to question fundamental beliefs about who I should be and how I should be living.

Since I fled my marital home in July 2020, I have effectively been homeless. I have no roots, having rented space in my former best friend’s home, and now in Poland where I lost my heart to the country and one of its citizens. My furniture. kitchenware, and in fact, the entirety of my life sits in a container, locked in darkness and silence. It is a choice to live this way and not a sorrow for me.

In fact, the freedom I have discovered by letting go and traveling light has liberated me in ways I never would have otherwise known. So in a way, my awful divorce, and the loss of my beautiful home and garden was a gift. It set me free to write.

And the words have never been happier.