There is nothing more important to me than honesty because I grew up in a house of lies. The walls were papered with them, the roof was tiled with them, we ate them, washed with them, snuggled under them as we slept at night and awoke with them as every fresh day dawned. As an adult, as truth smashed its way through the lies, I was forced to rewrite my own story to include abuse in my family to which I was ignorant. I had to recast heroes as monsters and rebels as victims and reshuffle my whole perspective of a beautiful childhood sun that dazzled me so completely. I have never experienced such pain, but after the pain comes strength and a new perspective on life … of discovering how to cope, knowing that the little things are no longer important, that if I can survive this and still smile and love and take pleasure in the small things, then I can truly survive anything.
And that’s my story … or at least one of them. I feel better for having told you, so thank you.
Another story is the time I broke my collar bone when I was eight years old because no teacher was ever going to tell me that I couldn’t skid on black ice. Around that time I put my foot in a cake at a jumble sale, or at least my mum said I did, and I also discovered that I love writing more than anything else in the world. I am blessed that I have been able to make it my career.