I grew up in a household pretty much devoid of any form of mental stimulation. There were no books, newspapers, paintings or toys. Three of us slept in one bedroom with maybe sixteen inches between each bed. There was a large cupboard along one wall and venetian blinds on the windows. There were no trips to the art museum, no summer holidays at a beach house, no kindly grandparents who lived on a farm. I spent a lot of time alone as a child, exploring the remnant scrub that still existed near our suburban home. The reason that I’m burdening you with these possibly tedious details is because I believe that although I wasn’t yet writing, I was evolving a way of seeing. I still am.

My achievements to date have been a little haphazard. I'm a teacher by trade and the wife of a farmer, so spare time can be difficult to conjure up. I would dearly love to see my work collected, but tend to get sidetracked by other priorities: the ram's escaped again, twenty four essays need to marked by Monday, the white elephant stall at the annual fair needs to be manned. You know how it is.

I keep records of my publications and folders full of comments sent to me. When I despair of the fact that I will ever really 'make it', I read them.

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