When I was eight years old I discovered an old typewriter in my parents’ storage house, which I hauled out and set up on my blue and white desk and promptly began work on the next Great American Novel. (Don’t look for it in the stores—it was replaced by a historical epic set in the colonial West Indies. And that one eventually gave way to the inevitable Gothic romance complete with indecipherable Scottish dialect…) I’ve literally been writing ever since, though I’ve upgraded to a laptop (and, no, I don’t type much better than I did when I was eight) and traded in (most of) my ‘high-faluting mumbo jumbo’ for a rapturous chronicle of the Beauty and Truth and Goodness of the God of my life.
I’m a recovering perfectionist, an erstwhile teacher of classical ballet and a devotee of Very Long Walks, especially with my four-legged son, Caspian, at my heels (or dragging me along by his leash, whichever way you prefer to envision it). I adore English literature, English tea, English soil. I collect memories and Southern sayings and old books and cats and things for my hair that don’t do what they say they will do. Vintage clothing is one of my vices, as is a tendency to worry first and ask questions later.
In 1999 I married my beloved Philip, and we’ve been living out our dreams ever since in an 1850’s farmhouse in the beautiful state of Georgia, ‘content to be in Christ together’. At last count our continually-expanding family included three dogs, seven cats, two Nubian goat kids, seven lambs, twenty-one hens, a mad rooster, and a fish named Horatio. If you don’t find me around here I’m probably busy in the barn or the garden. Or having tea in the back yard with my husband. Or out tramping somewhere in our 1962 Airstream.
Or scribbling madly, in pursuit of that perfect word.
Under the Mercy,