My first ambitious attempt at nonfiction emerged when, as a stranded 11-year-old, I lived temporarily with my aged Manx grandmother, a good Christian woman of wide girth and narrow attitudes. Confined to quiet pursuits one Sunday afternoon, and armed
For Mothers Day, one of my late Ma’s poems: Flower Fantasy Though flowers cannot speak, we know, And yet they say so much, I hear a message from each rose And in the petal’s velvet touch. I see your smile
I don’t have a roof-space; mine is a small single-storey cottage with beams – not even old ones – but my living room is pretty much like anyone else’s can’t-find-a-thing-for-dust-and-boxes attic. Yesterday, whatever I was searching for in one of
Mum’s Poems Today is the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death. Sylvia Mary Taggart – Ma, to me – born January 7th 1928, died 17th August 2007. Like many daughters, I didn’t fully appreciate her qualities until I was an
Scribbler’s Progress – My Writing Journey My most productive period as a storyteller was between the ages of three and five years. I hid for hours in the bathroom, squabbling with my characters. Sebastian was there too: we were inseparable.