My Writing Journey

For years, I believed my life should resemble a road. A clear beginning. Signposts. Milestones. A destination somewhere beyond the horizon. Choose a path. Stay on it. One foot after another, steady and certain.Keep going. But lately, I have begun to wonder if my inner landscape is not a road at all. Perhaps it is an archipelago. A gathering of islands scattered across an internal sea, each with its own weather, its own season, its own call. One island holds stories of m

SALLY SOMERTON'S JULY NEWSLETTER: 🌊 "CREATIVE TIDES" IS OUT AT THE WEEKEND 🌊 Sally Somerton - Island Writer For years, I thought life was supposed to follow a straight road. Choose a path. Stay on it. Keep going. But what if our inner landscape is less a road and more an archipelago? This month's newsletter explores creative tides, changing energy, islands, writing, rest, dynamic disability, and the wisdom of knowing when to sail and when to remain safely in harbour. If you

I told myself I was taking the day off. A proper day off. The kind I encourage others to take, as part of our self-care. A slow walk to meet my husband and the dogs, coming back from the beach. Coffee on the terrace. Watching sunlight play on the cliffs. Listening to birdsong. A delicious roast lunch cooked with love. A simple day. Or so I thought. Then I remembered... I'd stripped the bed. Done the laundry. Hung it out. Cleaned the windows. Brought the washing in. Folded it.

Today, I cannot stand outside this thing and tell you what it looks like. I am inside it. Inside the fibro fog that softens the edges of thought. Inside the heaviness that turns ordinary steps into quiet acts of courage. People call it fatigue. But fatigue sounds so small, Like the need for an early night, A need for an extra hour in bed. This is something else. This is a body that has forgotten how to be light. A weighted blanket holding me down in thought and movement. I se

This month's writing desk has become slightly chaotic... 😂✍️ Perfection arrived carrying a clipboard. Poetry came climbing through the window. Poetic prose knocked at the door (pretending to be polite). And my Pico mystery is sitting in the corner keeping secrets... Somewhere in the middle of all that, I've been thinking about perfection, presence, mindfulness, mind mess, tiny moments of peace, and discovering that writing — much like life — rarely follows the neat little pl

I’m approaching the final two chapters of the first revision of my first fiction novel in my island mystery series, and I’ve found myself reflecting on just how much this journey has changed me, not only as a writer but as a person. When I first began this book, I had an idea, a setting, fragments of characters, and a feeling I wanted to capture. I knew the atmosphere I wanted readers to step into. I knew I wanted mystery, depth, humanity, humour, and emotion woven through is

Sally Somerton-Island Writer There’s a moment, not long after arriving on an island, when something shifts. It’s subtle at first. You notice the light behaves differently, sharper in the morning and softening by late afternoon. The air carries weight. Salt, yes… but also something older. Something that doesn’t rush. And then there’s the quiet. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of distraction. No constant hum of urgency. No easy places to slip into the noise of everyda

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