I earn a living from words, but those words were written by other people, in another language. My job is to translate them into English.
Writing my own words is, by turns, a source of delight, despair, fulfilment, and frustration. For many, many years, I have hesitated to share my personal stories, for fear of seeming too introspective, of spending too much time gazing at the reflection in my pool. At this point in my life, I finally realise that the greatest satisfaction in writing comes from making a connection. I have at last understood that, far from singling us out, our very personal experiences are what join us. If I tell you who I am, you may well recognise yourself.
I love to read novels, partly for the joy that beautiful language brings, but also for those moments when the author’s words strike a chord so resonant that, fleetingly, it stills all other noise. It is my hope that you might find on these pages some thoughts, feelings, and experiences that strike a chord with you. I hope it might – should you need it – help you settle into the comfort of self-acceptance. Our inner lives are both marvellously odd, and gloriously ordinary.
Thank you for stopping by. And please do introduce yourself in some way. I’d be very happy to meet you, and I will always reply to comments and e-mails.
PS This blog is dedicated to my late Grandad. If you’d like to meet him, the very first post is all about him. He was a wonderful man, I think you’ll like him!