We love this review from Watford Observer on our spooky short story collection, Eight Ghosts: "They build a sense of dread so powerful that I almost didn’t want to keep reading... These brilliantly written and fantastically creepy tales are a must for ghost story fans. Guaranteed to send a chill down your spine."
Over the last week I have been immersed in copyediting Sharon Blackie’s The Enchanted Life: Unlocking the Magic of the Everyday. It is a beautifully written book about finding the meaning, and the heart, in everything we do.
As when I worked on If Women Rose Rooted, Sharon's book again intertwines itself with my life away from my desk. On today's dog walk, stopping to observe the turning leaves, I was reminded of this quote from the book. Many struggle with the shrinking days, but Sharon offers a different - magical - perspective. Enjoy! ~ Charlotte
‘I love the long, dark half of the year. After summer solstice – the longest day of the year – something inside me shifts and settles as the hours of darkness begin gradually to grow. It’s not that I don’t appreciate summer: I do. I love it deeply, from the first rich flush of hawthorn blossoms to the last fading mauves of August heather. I love the green and the growing, the treasures of the hedgerows, and the always astonishing abundance of the land which surrounds me. It’s just that I love autumn and winter more. Something opens up in me then – something soft and deep and glowing – which is far too shy to expose itself to the inexhaustible light of summer.
'Unlike many of my friends, I welcome the season of the long dark – and not just because I happen to thrive on it, but because it is a real and necessary part of the year, and there is no sense in fighting it. The texture of our days alters with the seasons: our bodies are made that way. In winter, the slightest sense of hibernation presses down on us, and if we allow ourselves to, we can enjoy a deeper, more velvety sleep. There is a slowing down, a taking stock. A stasis, a moratorium on new projects, a long brewing in the dark cauldron of transformation, out of which who knows what will emerge in spring?’
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