My Writing

A woman with wearing a yellow top and spotty pants sitting on the roots of a large fig tree.

Why I Write

Writing is my connection to something much bigger than myself. My way of contributing something positive to the world, in my own little way. Like its what I was born to do.

I love the space I get to live in when I write for children. The world becomes peaceful and grounded. I dip back into childhood and get lost in stories filled with hope, awe, connection, courage and kindness.

Writing for children also means I get to work with children. When I am connecting with children through stories, everything else melts away and I get this razor-sharp focus. I want children to believe in themselves in the way I believe in them. I want them to see themselves the way I see them.

looking up, close up, frontal shot of a donkeys face.

What I Write

My writing is heavily influenced by my deep connection with animals, my love of nature, the many places I have lived, the variety of work I have done and my family. My peculiar way of seeing the world often shines through.

As a rather eclectic person, I struggle sticking to one style or genre. I am often drawn to writing quirky stories about misfits. Other times something heart felt and whimsical pours out and I relish in the lyricism of language.

For longer stories, I tend to lean into fantasy with strong female characters, multiple points of view, animal communication and some kind of odyssey. I also like to write about all things donkeys, spreading the magical donkey dust through words.

A scenic photo of a herd of Donkeys with a woman, on a bush track, looking out over the Australian bush.

Who I Write For

I write for children who feel things deeply and enjoy looking at life through slightly kooky lenses. The ones who wonder if they are, in fact, an alien because they feel so darn different to everyone. The ones who need a little extra help figuring out their special place in the world. The ones that need help believing in their dreams. I write for the ones who struggle being seen and heard.

In many ways, I write for little me. The one who was still in a bubble of innocence and wonder. Who floated around the rooftop playground making up little diddies. Who lovingly created poem books for presents. Who couldn’t stop writing. Who was so crippled with shyness that answering a question out loud in class was impossible. The little me with an imagination that was rich and untamed.