Three years ago, I gave birth to my daughter, the last of my children. It was an overwhelming time, a hazy mix of excitement, joy and desperation, caring for three kids under the age of 5.
As many avid readers of fantasy can relate, finishing a series can often times leave you hanging, begging for more. I tried, with no luck, to curb my craving for the genre with substitute works. The desire to dive into a compelling story became a point of focus for me (where else to escape when you are homebound with tantruming toddlers?).
This set the trigger to write fiction of my own.
I’ve been writing prose and poetry since my teenage years, my imagination stirred by and thrusted into the worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion, H.P. Lovecraft‘s collection of weird fiction, classical pieces like Beowulf and Macbeth, the modern classics of J.K. Rowling‘s Potter series, the works of french authors Victor Hugo, Guy de Maupassant, Baudelaire and Gaston Leroux. Later came the wonderful work of Kate Elliot‘s Spriritwalker series.
I’ve always had a liking for the visual arts: from the complex symbolism of 16th century Hieronymous Bosch to the pre-Raphaelite and impressionist movements of the 19th c. (including works by John Waterhouse and Claude Monet) and contemporary surrealist painters like Dali and James Gleeson. As many of my generation, I was inspired by George Lucas’Star Wars and Willow, Jim Henson’s Dark Crystal and Labyrinth (featuring the late David Bowie) and Steven Spielberg’s long list of adventure driven productions.
However, coming from a family that valued the arts but was strongly rooted in empirical science, I was not encouraged to pursue those passions.
I undertook studies in science, and work as a health care provider to this day. I love my profession as I get to connect with people and help them on various levels.
But the Muse won’t let me be.
Six years ago, I wrote a collection of short stories; stories that served to entertain my first born child (placing him in precarious situations) where a mischievous elf, called Pooka Wooka, dragged him into fantastic adventures. As far as I was concerned, I was content with having the stories printed on 8×11, and read as requested by my son.
But the Muse did not relent.
And so, I have become a slave to my passion, writing inexorably day after day, sometimes far into the night and into the wee hours of morning.
I’ve created something of my own, crafted by my passions; a place where history, science, linguistics, anthropology, symbolism, religion and mythology meet fantasy, horror, magic and romance in a world waiting to be shared.