Skip to main content

About Me

Writing is the love of my life. To be a novelist has always been my deepest desire. Working towards my mangum opus was, is and always will be my grandest ambition. 

I’ve always had a particular interest in the history of the insufferable struggle of female writers in the pursuit of creative vocations and the acknowledgement of their talent and work, with emphasis on the burden of our domestic responsibilities in perpetual conflict with our creative ambitions, which is something I struggle with daily. I'm driven by their tales, of those who came before me, and I suspect I write not only because it's my innate creative medium, but because I want to be an advocate for the rights of female writers everywhere and continue to fight for our freedom of expression, and perhaps in by doing so, uplift and inspire others to do the same.

My noteworthy achievements in the literary field are few and far between, however, I do consider my ability to adsorb a slab of chocolate through means of osmosis a superpower. My relentless consumption of caffeine is also somewhat unnatural. 

I was born and raised in the Transvaal but moved to Cape Town with my family shortly after completing High School. The year of 2020 marks my 20th year as a Capetonian and I live in the same coastal village my debut novel, Bloodbird, is set in. 

During my late twenties I’d enrolled with UNISA for a Bachelors in Languages and Literature with Creative Writing as specialisation and received distinctions for my drama, poetry and narrative portfolio during my first year. A streak of bad luck thwarted my degree goals, but this hasn't dissuaded me from writing. I've been studying writing informally on my own for many years, making use of online resources and books written by professionals on the subject to hone my skill. I've had some poetry published online, and one of my poems, titled Motherland, was published by the Poetry Institute of Africa in an anthology titled Murmuring Memoirs. 

These days I find myself knee-deep in the bitter-sweet chaos that is motherhood, spending my days raising my wild child and stealing moments in-between to write fiction. 



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Wild Woman

Dear Reader, The Wild Woman has been on my mind for some time now. My husband and I had a discussion this past weekend about the premise of the book Women Who Run With The Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. I'd been fervently devouring its pages when I recently realised this book shares a similar theme with a manuscript I've working on for the past couple of years. When I tried to explain to him the need for women, the need for me, to be wild and free, he asked, 'But what is it that women want to be freed from? What does it mean to be wild?' I've married a good man. Unlike those who came before him, he's never tried to tame the wild feminine out of me. Not only does this unique man embrace every aspect of my wildness, he encourages it. I've never met a person who "gets" me like he does. Men like him are few and far between and I can say this with a fair amount of certainty, because experience. I know what every male representative of ...

Short Story Monday - The Day The Applebaum's Met

The Day The Applebaum's Met Being part of a family which consists of an inventor for a father, an artist for a mother, and five siblings which differ from each other on every imaginable level might sound delightful. I can assure you, being in the company of this particular group of Applebaums is everything but a delight. We try our very best to avoid gatherings. We keep it simple: a one-on-one meeting is a lot less volatile. There’s not much potential to get into a heated argument with just one of us. And if the pawpaw hits the fan the possibility to outrun only one was far greater. The odds would be favourable in such an instance. And we have all run away from each other at some point or another. I must admit, when I see other families getting on like a house on fire I am envious. And when I say like a house on fire I mean it in a good way, not in the Applebaum way, like the day we attended our grandmother’s funeral. It was Francis who had started it. Even though she is the ...

Confessions: I Often Disappear

The hours of my days and the days of my life belong to a tiny individual with a big presence. Some days are tougher than others. There is no me, only her. I disappear. On other days I receive rejection letters from literary agents as well. During those tough ones it feels like even the memory of me too will fade and no one will remember that I'd ever lived. On those days I have to actively seek out the happy.  So here goes. My happy is in the sound of notes resonating from the strings of my husband's guitar. It's in the sweet scent of fresh blooms and in the taste of a slice of cake for breakfast. It's in the blue of the ozone, the fragile guardian of our planet. It's in the golden glare of the setting sun over the mountain. It's in a cool breeze carrying the smell of the sea through my open window. It's the latest New Girl episode. It's  Bad Lipreading . The adoration for me in my husband's eyes. My daughter's giggle and the way h...