My Writing Journey

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

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

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