From Bedtime Stories to Gothic Ghosts

When my daughter was small, we had a nightly ritual of bedtime stories. Sometimes it was classics from the shelf, but often she would demand “a made-up one.” I’d spin little tales out of thin air — witches who lost their hats, wolves who wanted to sing in choirs, and sea creatures who longed to dance. She would listen wide-eyed, then fall asleep as I improvised endings softer than lullabies.

Looking back, I realise those evenings trained me as much as any writing course could. They taught me to trust imagination, to let stories carry me rather than forcing them into shape. They also planted seeds: ghosts slipping through the cracks of ordinary life, the strength of love, and the sense that magic might be found in the everyday.

Fast forward to today, and those threads are woven into my new novel, Unquiet Love. It’s set on the island of Hoy in Orkney, where sea and sky meet in restless dialogue, and where family ghosts refuse to be quiet. Writing it brought me back to the feeling of telling stories in the dark — conjuring atmosphere, giving voice to fears, and finding light in the company of those who listen.

Sometimes I think writers never stop telling bedtime stories. We just change the audience.