I've been writing ever since I can remember. I love words - the sound of them, the way they feel on my tongue, whether spoken or sung. I love the ability of words to jump off the page and into my head and hold me spellbound when I listen, or capture a moment in time.

I grew up in rural Somerset, a place which felt, and still feels, imbued with timeless beauty and old magic. I suppose conjuring with words was the closest I could get to capturing this. I now live in Swansea, close to the sea. I'm inspired by Celtic folktales of liminal places, places where the earthly and spiritual touch, places which are not quite one thing nor the other. 

I suppose, as writers, it’s our purpose to capture those moments and places, to bring them to others’ attention, to give ourselves permission to be dreamers.

I’m often accused of being too idealistic, as if having ideals was a bad thing. But honestly I think that in an increasingly cynical world, hope is the best weapon we have. Often, it feels as if the very act of creating is subversive. It goes against the capitalist narrative that everything we do has to serve some purely financial purpose. The sheer act of creating something beautiful is a protest, of sorts.

Writing gives us a voice. There’s a reason why fascists burn books. Words are dangerous, powerful things. In the beginning was the Word. Words create worlds. Creativity isn’t just for a privileged few. It’s what we were born to do. Ever since the first caveperson carved the first tentative outline in the dark, we learned that we had the right to exist, to make our presence felt.

Words create empathy. At the open mic poetry night I run each month, we share in these rare, beautiful moments of common expression, and the world feels a little less harsh, a little less cruel.

So, you see, I need to hear your voice, just as much as you need to hear mine.

Won’t you share it?