My world needed holding steady: I listened. I wrote.
I wrote about things that lurked in my unconscious, people, the trees, what the trees told me and the hills (they told me things too).
I wrote a book (rúnian – that means whisper in Old English); I recorded an album, a spoken word and music version of that book – Words of a Fiddler’s Daughter was born (me and The Ciderhouse Rebellion).
I was published in another book (called Viral Verses).
I wrote another book because I couldn’t help it.
It isn’t out yet.
I kept writing.
I can’t help it.
Words of a Fiddler’s Daughter has another project, it is Arts Council funded: Ironstone Tales.
Either my head or the world won’t quieten down, I don’t mind.