Welcome!
I am overjoyed and humbled that your journey has brought you here, to my little inglenook of the omni-verse. So please rest your forefinger, you have no doubt travelled many, many mouse clicks and for that I am eternally grateful. (For the purpose of navigating this website, you may wish to enlist a forefinger of a willing other, or use this as an excellent opportunity to exercise a different finger!)
Once they have arrived, my tales are plucked from the recesses of my cavernous mind (a mind largely devoid of anything considered to be logical or particularly useful), to then be forged into something quite delightful and impervious to the sands of time. In all fact, my mind is so cavernous, if a pin were to drop, the reverberations would probably be felt for days.
However, the tales I speak of are truly not mine, I am simply a humble custodian of sorts. For when the mood strikes and the tallow is aflame, the words flow through me as a favourable summer-tide’s breeze. From where they come no one really knows for certain, at least no one living. The stories that writers are inspirited to craft, are likely borrowed from the whispers of those departed long before us, those who wish to taste the miracle of life once more, if only as ink upon a page.
This is the truth of all authors, whether they they like it, know it, or otherwise, yet the honour and privilege is still ours to claim. Which is precisely why, a writer must write…
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