After years of writing, rewriting, rethinking, and being professionally edited within an inch of their lives, my science fiction duology is finally ready for the next stage: finding a literary agent.

The books are The AusumX Mission and The Xylaris Cure. They began, many drafts ago, as a young adult trilogy. But stories have a way of revealing what they really want to be, and this one wanted more depth, more pressure, more danger, and more heart. After a great deal of work—including guidance from three professional editors and three developmental edits with my current editor—the story evolved into an adult duology with much stronger bones.

At the center is a desperate race to save Earth from a lethal virus. There's a wormhole. There's an alien planet. There's corporate manipulation, sabotage, survival, betrayal, courage, and a fight over who gets to control humanity's last real hope. In other words, plenty to keep things lively.

But spectacle has never been enough for me. I care about character as much as plot, and probably more than is sensible for someone writing about wormholes and alien cures. I want a story to move fast, but I also want it to land emotionally. I want tension, yes, but also beauty. My editor has described my writing as lyrical, and that matters to me. I've worked hard to write science fiction that is not only imaginative and high stakes, but also human.

My background may explain some of that mix. I have a degree in Aeronautical Engineering from Imperial College London, a later degree in Creative Writing from the University of Victoria, and a long professional history in computer systems design and development. So yes, I enjoy big ideas, technical structure, and figuring out how things work. But I'm equally drawn to voice, character, and the quieter emotional truths that give a story its real weight.

Now I'm looking for the right agent to help take these books into the world — onto bookshelves first, and perhaps one day onto screens as well. I do think these stories are cinematic, but not in a loud or inflated way. They are visual, dramatic, emotionally charged, and built on strong scenes and escalating stakes. They can be read, certainly. But I can also see them.

As for me, I'm not especially glamorous. I'm happiest with my family, my work, my writing, and a small circle of people I genuinely care about. I like wit, honesty, competence, and people who mean what they say. I believe integrity still matters. I also believe stories matter—especially the ones that entertain us while asking larger questions about power, loyalty, sacrifice, and what makes life worth saving.

So, this is where things stand in 2026: the books are ready, I'm ready, and I'm looking for the person who sees what these stories could become.

That feels exciting. Slightly terrifying. And exactly right.

Hard to believe I’ve been writing for nearly 20 years. Back in September 2004 I embarked on a journey to become a creative writer with a degree to hone my skills, to elevate my writing to a publishing-worthy level.

Here I am in 2023 still writing and with 5 books in my kit bag. Right after graduating, ripe with enthusiasm, I tackled my first novel set in post WWII rural England, about a young girl and her family. The story covers three years in Heatherbelle’s and her family’s life, where the reader can share her journey of discovery, challenges, and overcoming.

After I had finished this novel, before even trying to get published, I was off to my next challenge with a memoir called, No Higher Purpose. Both these books have now been professionally edited and are a couple of months away from being ready for publishing, which I plan to do this year.

Never enjoying being idle, these past three years, while editing the first two books, I wrote a young adult science fiction trilogy filled with drama and the unexpected that takes place in the future in a dystopian North American country. I’ll continue to edit and complete those over the next couple of years.

Aside from my passion, writing, I continue to do computer work for one of our son’s businesses and enjoy time with my husband, our wonderful children, and grandchildren.

I recently finished reading a book that had been in my library for a few years. I can’t recall when October Sky turned up as I collect “possible” good literature everywhere I go and from every person I talk to about writing. I remember watching the 1999 film by the same name and finding it an inspiriting story. So, trying to nibble my way through my bookcase, I pulled it out a few weeks back.

In case you don’t know, The Rocket Boys—original title—is Homer H. Hickam’s 1950s true story of his teen years in Coalwood, West Virginia, building homemade rockets after being inspired to help the US space program, since Russia was clearly leading the way.

I was differently inspired—though thwarted by being a woman—to join Britain’s Royal Air Force as a fighter pilot. Post WWII England, our parent’s stories of bombing, and the many people we children heard of who had died in the wars, laid a fertile ground for my romantic dreaming. Why shouldn’t I fly jet fighters? There would be other wars, wouldn’t there? Our homeland needed as many pilots as it could muster. Besides, I knew I’d be a good pilot and with an ultimate dream of going to space, I might as well start by piloting earth-bound craft. The RAF said no. Women didn’t have the necessary strength and stamina! Undaunted, I applied to Imperial College, London, and three years later graduated in aeronautical engineering. I figured being close to aircraft would be better than nothing.

Jump forward fifty some years and imagine me reading about our friend Homer and how he truly did succeed in his rocket building and his dream of working for NASA. Interestingly enough, he’s now a writer, too. His book is a great read and I was inspired all over again. As I closed the last page, I declared,

“That’s it. I’m going to write an inscription in this and give it to our eight-year-old grandson. Some years from now, it will inspire him to follow his passion.”

I turned to the front page and saw an inscription:

“I found the film inspiring and bet the book is even better. Hope this gives you some fun reading, happy experiences, and the rekindling of dreams, & how we follow them. David.” [Circa 2000 gift to our daughter from David, her cousin in England.]

David talks in his inscription about following dreams. Years after he wrote that, he was awarded a PhD in space engineering and now works for the European Space Agency. He was part of the recent Rosetta Project to land an unmanned space vehicle on an asteroid. Like me, he dreamt of a space-related career. Like Homer, he achieved his dream.

May we all, my grandson included, follow our dreams.

Blogging feels like giving the world a peephole through the walls of privacy we normally keep open only to family, friends and allies. Good facts or bad say so little about a life with its underpinnings of pain and joy, dreams and striving. But, here goes. Peep away.

I live in a unique log home that, atop its rocky plateau, eyeballs a highway snaking through granite hills before disappearing out of site. Other windows in this large house show us the plethora of conifers, and the occasional arbutus with their peeling, orange bark, and sadly some scraggly, ugly, Gary oaks that someone decided weren’t just indigenous, but were in many instances protected. Beyond our trees are hills and more hills, the ones from the bathroom so evenly rounded they are reminiscent of a lady’s breasts. Through the deck sliding glass door, on days when cloud is not, across the top of the trees, you can see snow-capped mountains peaks. It is on this lovely backdrop that I gaze as I decide what a character might retort to his antagonist. It is here that I think about writing.

However, if you were to look in the filing cabinet behind my desk or the five storage boxes keeping me company in my spacious office (all rooms in this house are deliciously large which poses a disturbing problem for my husband and me in the inevitable downsizing), you would find evidence of a different life in computers starting long before most people knew what computers were or could do. My computer work has blessed me, satisfied my need to create order, and been a great joy. I like to think that what I created and those who use(d) my systems are blessed and joyful too.

Back in 2004, I decided, sort of out of the blue, to enrol in a local University Arts Department with the intention of completing a degree in creative writing. Our daughter was just wrapping up her own BA, our two boys had been career-bound for some time, so it was time. I continued to consult full time, creatively juggling my hours, my wife-time, my many duties, to accommodate classes. As my second degree, aeronautical engineering being the first, I only needed thirty credits, which allowed me to complete the degree in five years.

When I am not clicking away at the keyboard, I play Lego with the grandchildren, or my husband and I take them for walks in the “big trees”, or by the water. I think I enjoy gardening, and I like to see myself as a gourmet vegetarian cook, though that might be a bit over generous. I do regularly bake my whole-wheat bread and have done ever since a dear friend shared her recipe with me back in the 70’s. I make blackcurrant jam and mango chutney for my husband, marmalade for the kids and recently taught my young grandson to make chocolate ganache. Both my sons, as boys, and my daughter helped me in the kitchen and are now capable cooks. You need to tempt kids early on, I told them, with easy dessert recipes and build from there. Anyone who can cook is empowered. Just like anyone who can write.

So, that’s my opening blog to say hello to you readers. Now you can picture me in my cedar-walled office clicking away on the keyboard, husband in his office tying fishing flies and the grandkids bouncing on the front room play mattresses.

More to come.

Last Tuesday, I was officially marked. Branded with the 'Orange Sticky' of shame. Like getting detention in school for bad behaviour, our neighbours had to pass by my unemptied blue bin knowing I'd been caught flagrante delicto with an unauthorized vessel. My crime? Ambition. I dared to have more than four quarts of milk a week. I'm sure you've all suffered the Sticky for a non-conforming paper container, a miscoloured or misshaped bin, the official blue bag (for paper only) being used for plastics because, like me, your bins probably overflow with those Costco grape and strawberry boxes particularly when the summer's here and, heck, you have to put them somewhere.

Having suffered the "Orange Sticky" hand-slap enough in the past, I'd made a point of buying plenty of blue bags, but the blue box was a different problem. There's no room in my recycle cupboard and precious little room anywhere else to store the compressed 4-quart milk plastics, the baby formula empties, Starbucks paper and plastics, good old cans and bottles, and now, finally, my strawberry soymilk containers recently permitted entry into the hallowed hall of recycling. So, off I trot to Alpine Disposal to purchase the next size up in blue boxes that I'd enviously seen curb side in some districts.

"Oh, we only sell the one size," the girl tells me who turns out to be one of my neighbours. "You should try Staples or Walmart."

"Fair enough," I say, figuring they've missed out on market demand.

Staples is close by and sure enough they have two different bigger sizes in official looking recycle-blue. I pick the smaller of the two. Back home, I'm thrilled. It's not a lot bigger, but the extra space makes all the difference. Instead of struggling down our long, steep driveway at least twice with plastics tumbling from the official sized box, I'm fully contained.

Then, I get a bad girl "Orange Sticky".

"Your bin is oversized and we refuse to empty it!!!"

Ah!!

What is with these Recycle Police? What the heck difference does it make to them to not have to bend down so far, or so often? One up-and-over as opposed to two. And where do they get off with that attitude?

It's all about power, isn't it?

If they don't take those damn plastics and bottles away from us, what are we going to do with them? We're sick of the things as it is, overflowing out of our cupboards, our porches, our kitchens when we miss the pick-up by mistake. My husband swears recycling takes more energy than it saves and scatters mess all over our cul-de-sac, when it's windy and wet, which is frequent in Victoria. Besides there's the sorting, peeling, washing and squashing time he says I waste. He resents the whole process, and I understand why now we've got a new set of police to deal with.

I just phoned the Capital Regional District (CRD) who manages the recycle program, then International Paper who are the contracted pickup company in our area. Guess what they told me?

"Oh, it's WorkSafe BC rules because some people were putting too many heavy things in big bins so we stopped picking them up."

Don't you love bureaucracy and power? I challenge anyone to fill my slightly bigger recycle box with enough of any recycle plastic, bottles, or cans to make it even half of the weight of garbage bins. Come on! I've seen more muscular effort from a toddler fighting a car seat. My four-year-old grandson can hoist this bin one-handed while eating a Goldfish cracker. What are we hiring? Victorian orphans with the vapors? My four year-old grandson can pick up my bin. Besides, I bet most oversized bins really aren't too heavy and, hey, you've always got those "Orange Stickies" for that one in a hundred "too heavy bigger bin", right?

But an outright rule is so much easier, isn't it?

I phoned back CRD and they pulled out their winning card.

"If we don't obey the WorkSafe BC rules, and insist people use only the official WorkSafe BC designed blue box, our workers won't be covered if they have an injury.

Ah, the ultimate bureaucratic trump card: Safety. Apparently, lifting a bin of empty strawberry containers is a high-risk occupation akin to deep-sea welding or lion taming!

Clearly, my new blue box is doomed. I'll have to dispose of it. I'll have to replace it with two new official WorkSafe BC designed, CRD approved smaller boxes. More plastic.

But how can I dispose of my new doomed oversized box? I'll have to put it in the recycle, except it's oversized so no one will take it. I can't give it to Big Brothers or the Salvation Army because then someone else will assume they can use it and end up in the same "Orange Sticky" humiliation.

The dump. The dump is the only answer. I'll smuggle it out like contraband. I'll bury it in a heavy-duty black bag under a layer of onion peels and used diapers—the only things the government actually lets you throw away without a background check. Take that, Constable Recycle.

Phew! I knew I'd find an answer if I thought about it long enough!