I’ve been weaving worlds for so long that I can’t imagine my life without them.
Raised on an expansive farm at the foot of Mount Taranaki was like growing up in my very own fantasy where the trees at the back of our lot kept track of the comings and goings on our property, sheltering us from any harm, and pixies called from beyond the hills at twilight hoping to coax you into joining them, never to return.
I was making up stories before I had the words to write them, and I knew, just knew that there was magic in the world, even if I was the only one who might see it.
Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. My younger brother often joined me as we searched for doors to other worlds in the rushes, or appeased water spirits in the river which dissected our land. We would hunt for ghosts anywhere we could, always staying clear of the ‘black hooded man’ who lurked in the shadows.
There was always a tale or two spinning around in my head and by age 13 I was trying to capture those in my earliest attempts at novels. I still have one of them actually, sitting in a file, waiting to be rewritten – another has already been reborn, the ideas having grown with me and expanded exponentially as I aged. In fact, many of my childhood imaginings have found their way onto the page, and those that haven’t yet no doubt will eventually.
How could I not write? What’s more, how could I not write speculative fiction? There is magic in this world of ours, magic that can lead us anywhere we might imagine. It vibrates in everything I see and the question – what if…? – is just begging to be explored.
I could no more deny the urge to write about beauty and decay, magic and the otherworldly, chaos and desire than I could deny the urge to breathe.
Don’t forget to check into the main page for NZ Speculative Fiction Blogging week for links to other great posts.