©2017 GEMMA HUMPHREY

I'm not just a writer...

A few years ago, Andy and I moved into a little converted barn, in the Sussex Countryside. Compared to our three-bedroom rental, it was tiny – an open plan kitchen, dining and living space, a bedroom and a bathroom on the ground floor, with a little room and second shower room built into the eaves above. It had a little conservatory running down the south side, which the landlord proclaimed was a ‘solar heater’ – the large glass windows intended to reflect heat into the barn during cold months. Although it did have underfloor heating, we never really got to grips with it, preferring to use the wood burning stove that sat in the centre of the living space when we needed to. Its water was supp

The day I became a writer...

I started writing REVELATION on Saturday 12th May 2012. I can still remember it so clearly. I'd spent the past week or so moping about, lost in an image from a dream. A dream involving a blue eyed, blonde haired Angel named Christian. He was haunting me. Tormenting me. Demanding that I do something with the image I'd created. Finally, Andy cracked and asked me what was wrong. After I'd explained my bizarre situation, he then sent me on a path with three simple words: Write it down. It was accompanied with a shrug of the shoulders, a casual 'duh!' etched into his expression - as if his girlfriend daydreaming about imaginary men who looked a bit like Chris Hemsworth with wings was the most nor

10 ways I beat Writers Block

So it turns out, I’m useless at blogging. Don’t get me wrong – the intent is there. I’d love to have filled this thread with hundreds of really interesting posts about me, but, as it turns out, I’m not that interesting. Of course I’m lying. I’m actually awesome. But what I’m not, it seems, is focused. This leads me, quite nicely, on to the whole point of this post in the first place. Writers block. Yup, you heard me. I’m currently suffering from the horror that is writers block. The one thing all writers live in fear of – the day our muses abandon us, leaving us high and dry, with our (theoretical, in my case, since I type) pens poised over our blank pages - which seem to stretch on endlessl