I came late to writing. No, that's wrong. I came late to publishing my writing. And what a thrilling ride it's proving to be. I'm never happier than when bashing both brain and keyboard in my Plotting Shed at the end of my garden. On gloriously creative days, I can look up and find hours have passed. I'm amazed the scenery is unchanged, fixed, when I've been absorbed in heart-stopping drama or tragedy, or romance. At last, I am following my bliss. I'm a bit late to the party, but I'm dancing. There was an old black and gold typewriter knocking about my childhood home. When I wasn't skinning my knees climbing trees or wandering aimlessly in the countryside with my dog and my dreams, I could be found, as now, typing away with imaginary friends whispering in my ear. My first novel, The Twisted Vine, is based on a happy time picking grapes in France in the 1980s. I met some amazing people there but none as outrageous as those that sprang to life on my screen. Daffodils, is based in Wiltshire, where I grew up. It attempts to portray how ordinary lives, and the rigid social order, were radically altered by the catalyst of the First World War. This book developed into The Katherine Wheel Series, with a sequel set in 1919 in the aftermath of WW1, Peace Lily, and Speedwell, taking the characters into the roaring twenties. The next one, as yet un-named, is a ghost story. I'm just listening to the whispers from the other side to get the full picture....