Hi, I'm Sarah Fisher. I'm currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing, and have worked as a freelance writer for several years. Writing is in my blood. I have to write because it is essential to me, like breathing. It keeps me sane.
SG Fisher in 60 seconds
When did you start writing?1988 St Mellons, Cardiff
What do you love about Short Stories?Good short stories are like tiny portholes looking out over a vast ocean - they may seem small, but you'll find yourself returning for another glimpse
Do you write in other forms?I write poems for myself, dabble in microfiction and am currently in the throes of writing my first novel
What distracts you from writing?My children
Outside of writing, what are your other passions?African-Caribbean spirituality, good food and my rabbits (who are not food!)
What is your favourite book?Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys
Who are your favourite writers?Margaret Atwood, Jeanette Winterson and Haruki Murakami
Where is your dream location?Two islands: Iceland and Hawaii
What one item would you put into Room 101?Bigotry and the people who stir it up
Do you have any advice for new writers?Lose your inhibitions. Self-consciousness kills creativity
ebooks by SG Fisher:
Lost children, a lonely woman, a secret witch...'October' was inspired by many things including empty nest syndrome and traditional remembrances of the dead. " The cherry-coloured school bus pulled up under the tall pines. Standing by her large bay window, the woman watched three children clamber in. She remembered her own boys waiting in the trees’ shade before they were old enough to go to comp. Watching the other mothers turn into their empty homes she recalled the silence waiting like a mouth. The woman went into her kitchen and dealt out bacon and eggs for her husband. For her sons there were poached eggs on toast and granola with orange juice. A warmed teapot – the husband always abhorred the bitterness of coffee – sat and steamed beside a ruby toaster. She herself took only milk for breakfast. Milk was a whole food. She was inclined to pick at the leftovers on their plates, though, like a little bird – or a carrion crow, her husband once had muttered. He had never been very nice to her, and any vestiges of civility were abandoned early on. Her table was well laid, and a source of pride to her. These days no one bothered to iron table linen, yet hers was crisp and clean beneath her polished silverware. A white candelabra furnished the centre of the table, a framed portrait of the family beside it. Miraculously, they had all been captured smiling. After the meal it was time to walk to school. The local comp was not far away. She did not really need to go, of course, but she enjoyed the walk, especially in this weather..."
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