It’s simple: grief.
In 2020, at the start of the Covid-19 pandemic, my mother developed a cough. She was dead 24 hours later and I was inconsolable. The pain and grief felt insurmountable.
I hadn’t been writing for years and a fellow author and friend suggested I take it up again and write through my grief. And so I did. What was conjured through my sorrow and midnight-typing was a world where my mother was alive and well – and as fierce as she once one. A place I knew I would see her again.
The first book is heavy with themes of ‘mother’ and ‘grief’.
My fictional angelic world became as real to me as the ground I stand on. It still is.