(So if you are wondering about what to get that dreamy bookish friend for Christmas or Solstice, or are wanting a little something for yourself, and you have a spare six dollars, maybe you would be interested in a small digital book containing eleven moon-soaked tales.)
This has been perhaps my most difficult project. The year proved long and the seasons threw all they had at me. A parched summer, a winter of unexpected storms, a spring of love and strain and promises. Through it all, I gathered a few quiet stories, often in a dream, as the wind shook me and the sky darkened with wild uncertainties and torn leaves. Everything I wrote, I questioned and doubted, compared and half-unravelled, but ultimately left to tell itself.
And inbetween the words and the worry, I sit beside slow waters and watch the swans, the butterflies, and listen to wild stories in the wind.