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Emerging Writer Member Profile

Freya Watson

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My background, and therefore my writing, is quite eclectic and I have written across a wide range of genres, from fiction and business reporting to self-help and spirituality. My childhood in an Irish-speaking Baha’í family gave me a perspective on life that has always been different to most of my peers and sensitive to the minority view. As a result, I have always been fascinated by what creates individuality, both in terms of cultural difference and in terms of personality, and by how we struggle against our uniqueness in an effort to fit in.

Since graduating with an Arts Degree in languages, I have walked a dual path through life - on the one hand making my way in the business world, while on the other continuing to delve into deeper mysteries. This delving has led me into Shamanism, Tantra and many more diverse areas of exploration. All of these, along with a fascination with the otherworldly, colour my writing and I blog regularly for Elephant Journal and have self-published a number of self-help books. However, fiction is my first love and I am particularly fond of writers who can create quirky characters and a strong sense of place.

Writing sample

The Rose Moon, continuing its journey through the sky, also woke young Ivan Trebilcock, its bright light dazzling him from the depths of slumber. Barely conscious, he slipped out of bed and walked softly across the landing to his parents’ room, pushing the door open. Seeing his father’s spot was empty, Ivan climbed in beside his mother, snuggling close for comfort, his little fist wriggling between the buttons on her pyjama top, finding their mark in her warm, damp cleavage.

Ivan’s obsession with his mother’s breasts had become no laughing matter. By four years of age, Mrs. Trebilcock reckoned, most boys should have no further need of that level of intimacy with their mother’s body. And yet her son continued to reach for them, overtly and surreptitiously, drawn by a force beyond his understanding to fondle the maternal mammaries whenever he could. Soft, warm and reminiscent of forgotten pleasure, whenever they appeared in front of him in low-cut blouse or thin nightdress, Ivan couldn’t help himself. He just had to touch.

For his mother, dragged abruptly from her dreams by her son’s comfort-seeking, it was the final straw. Her growing impatience at having to guard her body and censor her clothing erupted, and she sat bolt upright, flicking the light on.

‘Come with me,’ she commanded, lifting her son out of bed and marching him as far as the bakery kitchen, where his father was working in the early hours of the morning.

“For pity’s sake, will you give this boy some dough to play with!” She firmly but gently pushed her son in his father’s direction.

Her husband, recognising that a limit had been reached, immediately tore off a generous fistful from the loaf he was kneading and lifted his son, in barefeet and pyjamas, onto a chair by his side, slapping the dough onto the floured counter in front of him with a thud.

‘Here, son, see what you make of this.’

The boy, sleepy but curious, said nothing but obligingly sank his fingers into the dough’s smooth, yielding, elasticity. Silence descended on the softly-lit bakery as small hands tentatively pressed, then pinched, the ball of dough, exploring a new and yet familiar sensation. With growing confidence, he experimented, squishing it in his fist, pushing the heel of his hand into it, watching it slowly spring back from its flattened state. He rolled it, squeezed it, put his face down to feel its strange coolness with his lips.

Relieved to have her body back, Mrs. Trebilcock leaned against the pale blue wall and looked around. It was a room that was so familiar she rarely stopped to heed it but now, with the stillness of concentration filling the space, she took a moment. The blinds were drawn against the dark of the night and the ovens not yet warmed for the morning’s bake. Her husband’s natural neatness clearly reigned in this place that had been home for him longer than they had been together - labelled containers stacked in an orderly manner on the low shelves, wooden boards and tools scoured and placed carefully at the back of the worktops, oven doors shined a high sheen, the floor clean except around the area where he had been working, which had a light dusting of flour.

Mother and father’s eyes met. Yes, it had worked. Why hadn’t they thought of it earlier? Mrs. Trebilcock had been caught up in her own internal fight, not wanting to push her young son away if he needed his mother’s comfort but, all the same, resenting the constant intrusion into her privacy. Ivan’s father had conveniently removed himself from any involvement, reassured that it was a matter to be resolved between mother and son. Neither had considered that there might be a solution at hand that would favour all concerned.

Ivan, aware once more of his parents, lifted his eyes, a blissful smile lighting his face.
Eager to anchor the new development, Mrs. Trebilcock placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder.

‘Let him make something for you,’ she suggested.

Ivan felt his father’s strong stomach against his back as his father moved close behind him, stretching his arms around either side and placing his large hands over Ivan’s small ones.

‘I’ll show you,’ he said, warm breath tickling Ivan’s ear as he leaned down to his height. ‘Then you can try by yourself.’

The elder Trebilcock, hands firmly guiding the younger’s, rolled the dough ball back and forth until it formed a long sausage shape that wiggled out either side of their palms, flailing on the counter like a caught fish. Ivan laughed.

‘Now, watch,’ his father said, taking the dough sausage and gently coiling it round on itself. ‘It looks like a snail but this is the shape we use for a Cinnamon Swirl - only now we have to dip it over here before we put it in the oven. Come on.’

Ivan jumped off the stool and followed to where his father was pushing open the lid on one of the sealed containers.

‘See this?’ Mr. Trebilcock said, indicating the label to his son. ‘These tell you what’s in the containers. When you’re able to read, you’ll know the difference between them. For now, you’ll have to ask or smell them. Here, stick your nose in.’ He offered the open container. ‘This has a mixture of cinnamon and sugar.’

Ivan did as he was bidden and inhaled deeply. Then, accurately gauging his parents’ forbearance, he stuck in a finger, licking it clean of the sweet brown-speckled crystals. The blissful smile returned.

It was the beginning of a life-long love affair - for Ivan, as well as for the rest of us.

Current project

I am currently at various stages on a number of projects, including final re-edits on an adult and a children's novel, and mid-way through three other adult novels.





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