Judith White spends much of her time going round in circles looking for excuses, busying herself with reasons not to write. All she wants to do is write, all she wants to do is not write. But when she does, when she’s sitting there working in her notebooks or at the computer, the measuring of time stops, and she is grounded in the here and now, finally knowing who she is.
Writing is her means of expression. Writing is the window through which she gazes, to make sense of the world through story. Her writing allows her to cover herself with feathers and leaves and lichen and broken shells. She can crawl undetected through the undergrowth to where characters skulk in murky fog, waiting to be summoned to play their part.