Writing a book

How grief, insomnia, and one immortal dog led me here

Dougie and I on our great big adventure across Europe. I miss that little guy.

The week after my dog Dougie died, just a few weeks after losing my Dad, I wrote a book.

Well…“book” is perhaps generous. In the same way a pile of flour, eggs, and sugar could be called a cake if you ignore the charred remains and smoke alarm.

I couldn’t sleep, so I wrote. I didn’t want to think, so I wrote.

I put on my headphones and disappeared into a world where grief couldn’t follow. A world of magic, rebellion, and, a dog that never, ever dies.

By the end of one week, I’d written 86,798 words. It poured out of me like a flood - chaotic, wild, and full of heart.

It’s rubbish, of course. Beautiful, heartfelt rubbish. The bones might be good, but the plot? A shambles. Just like my mind was.

And when I sent some chapters to my teenage niece, a prolific reader and my ideal audience, her silence told me everything I needed to know.

She liked the dog, though.

You win some, you lose some.

So that book is shelved. But all is not lost. I loved the process. I loved Ailith, my tough and funny main character. I loved the old queer couple whose love was gentle and strong.

And, of course, the cheeky dog who turns out to be something ancient and powerful, waiting to be reborn. (I mean… aren’t all dogs?)

They may find their way into another story, in another world some day. They’re lingering somewhere, impatiently tapping their feet, waiting for me to stop being so dramatic and come back to them.

And maybe they have a point because it turns out, writing is addictive.

Since then, I’ve been experimenting with short stories, strange genres, and new voices. I even started Feral Ink, a little side project for my short stories.

One story, a ridiculous retelling about Odin’s horse Sleipnir during the Great Hunt, was published in Otherworldly Magazine. My first ever published piece!

It was wildly exciting and, if I’m honest, a little terrifying. I haven’t told many people about it. There’s something about seeing your name in print that makes you feel both ten feet tall and completely, utterly naked.

Still, once I’d recovered from the mild panic, I realised what I really love writing about isn’t just mythic horses but real places.

So I keep coming back to nature writing: that tender intersection of landscape, life, and work.

I love books like James Rebanks’ English Pastoral and sarah langford Rooted. They speak so beautifully about the land, community, and farming. Yet they also share something I don’t: inherited roots. Land passed from father to son, from some great-grandfather or rich uncle.

I grew up in Croydon, South London. My nearest “landscape” was the local park. I came to conservation and farming late.

I’ve never owned land, though I dream of it.

Through my work, I’ve had the enormous privilege of working across so many landscapes, from uplands and coastlines to chalk downs and community gardens in Brixton.

Each has shaped me. And I hope, in some small way, I’ve shaped them back.

I want to write a book about those landscapes. What they’ve taught me, what they reveal about ourselves and our relationship with nature, and what we can do to help them thrive again.

I’d like it to be a hopeful manifesto for the land and the people who care for it. A book about belonging, for those of us who didn’t inherit land but found our way to it anyway.

There will naturally be a few farm mishaps and funny sheep stories sprinkled in along the way…

I think this is an unusual angle in the nature writing world. A queer city girl, someone who doesn’t quite belong, taking up space in the fields and finding her place among them.

Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s a story worth telling. A perspective worth sharing. I think… yes, on my braver days, I think it might be.

So… I have an idea. It might be a terrible one, but I’d love your thoughts.

I’m thinking of opening up paid subscriptions here on The Nature of Things. Those who join would be my little reading circle. They’d be early chapter readers, vibe-checkers, and more importantly, moral supporters.

You’d help shape the book, keep me accountable, and gently remind me that yes, Carrie, what you have to say matters and that it’s okay to take a break before rewriting Chapter 6 for the seventh time.

What do you think? Would you pick up that book?

Let me know in the comments. I’d love to know if this sounds like something you’d want to read, or if you’d fancy joining my little reading circle if I take the plunge.

Thanks as ever for reading x