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Sunset on the Cliffs of Faja (Sally Cross) HAPPY EARTH DAY TO YOU ALL! 🌿🏝️🌿 OF MEADOWS, OCEAN AND FLAME Sally Somerton She is not quiet, this Mother of earth, she hums through each meadow in blossom and birth. In wildflower fields bright colours run free, she dances through petal, through root, and through tree. The elders stand tall in their slow, steady grace, with branches that reach into light-filled space. Their roots w

Sally Somerton, Island Writer I find myself wondering, not for the first time, and likely not the last, when exactly it was decided that the quiet tending of the porcelain throne would fall, as gently and persistently as limescale, into the hands of women. Not announced, of course. Nothing so dramatic. No ceremony. No ribbon-cutting. No ancient decree etched into stone beside laws of land and lineage. Just… a slow seep. A drip, perhaps. Like a tap not fully turned off. One da

Sally Somerton - Island Writer A fibro flare begins the day, deep joy… hip hip hooray. (We laugh, because truly, what else can we do?) I waddle, yes, waddle , down to garden and vine, chasing movement, in hope of loosening this reluctant spine. The air is kind, at least. The earth is steady beneath me. But my muscles protest regardless, a chorus of no, not today. Still… I try. Because stopping entirely feels far worse than moving slowly on. Back inside, the reality settles, a

A Dear Diary Ditty... Sally Somerton  Ah… it must be 3am. Or edging closer to 4, I’m sure. Because there it is again, my mind, wide awake, knocking far too loudly at my door. Not a polite tap. No gentle suggestion. But an urgent insistence, Now. Write this now. So I fumble in the dark, pen scratching across paper balanced on the edge of sleep, trying to catch the thoughts before they scatter like startled birds. Ideas spill, half-formed, luminous, demanding, as if they’ve bee

Sally Somerton, Island Writer Wise-woman witterings on perfectionism, creative overwhelm, and working towards finishing what I started... There’s a quiet confession I’ve been sitting with lately. My perfectionism, which I thought I had dealt with long ago, has been slipping into my writing. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But in those subtle, almost convincing ways… Tweaking a paragraph again. Rethinking a character arc. Pausing a story because “it’s not quite right yet” And th

Anna Ashcott has always noticed what others miss. Not in an obvious way. Not with any desire to intrude. But in the slight pause before someone answers a question. The story that shifts, just enough, on its second telling. The silence that lingers a fraction too long. It made her good at her work. An investigative journalist with a reputation for patience rather than persistence. For listening, rather than pushing. But even she didn’t see it coming. The moment her own life wo

Sally Somerton, Island Writer of mysteries, midlife adventure and a sprinkle of psychological suspense. There’s something about the ocean that refuses to explain itself. It doesn’t rush to fill the silence. It doesn’t tidy the edges. It simply moves; steady, restless, ancient as it whispers secrets we feel, more than understand. And perhaps that’s why we’re drawn to it, especially when life unravels. Because the ocean doesn’t ask us to have it all figured out. It meets us exa

Sally Somerton, Island Writer. The page waits. It always does, Calm, composed, Slightly smug. Meanwhile, The writer does not. There are, at last count, seven books, maybe more. Seven Plus! Not written, you understand. Not finished. Not published. Oh no. Started. Each one is brilliant, obviously. Each one demands my attention. Each one arriving at precisely the moment Another was about to make progress. Because why finish a book When can I begin another? Outside, the pink moon

Sally Somerton, Island Writer. Island Mysteries, Midlife Adventures, with a touch of Psychological Suspense. 🐾Here I share a vignette, introducing you to Mabel, one of my characters, in my Island Mysteries series set in the Azores. The morning Anna Ashcott stopped pretending she was fine began with perfect weather. Sunlight poured generously across the terracotta roofs, as if nothing in the world had ever gone missing. The sea, just beyond the low hum of the town, gently met

Mature woman sat on balcony overlooking the ocean, notebook and pen poised.. I didn’t set out to write fiction. In fact, if you’d asked me a few years ago, I would have said, with great confidence, that I was a non-fiction writing woman . Thoughtful, grounded, sensible, even. But then… There has always been this niggle at the back of my head to write a book set in France. Not in a dramatic, whirlwind, cinematic sort of way. More of a quiet unfolding. Farmhouses and shuttered