Sarah James grew up in the Southern suburbs of Sydney with a big rambling backyard that spilled down into the bush. There was a steep, craggy track that led to a muddy river. She spent her weekends and afternoons down in the bush with her neighbour, sisters and dog. They dodged red belly black snakes and scratched their legs against the lantana as they made there way to hidden caves, a giant slippery dip rock and the squelching, squirching mudflats of the mangroves.

It was the place where the stories began, deep in the darkest part of the bush, where everything was cold and damp and Sarah imagined that there was a witch lurking with two wild dogs, ready to hunt Sarah down. Squealing back home along the track, her own dog yapping at her heals, the story of the witches house was already unfolding in Sarah’s mind, long before she put pen to paper.

So that was where the stories started, way back in childhood. Other things happened along the way, as they do in life. Sarah became a midwife (ooooh, lots of things to write about), had four kids (lots of people to tell stories to), lived in Switzerland for a year (her very own adventure story) went on a mad mystical spiritual pilgrimage (crazy things to write about that no one will ever believe) and of course, gathered loads of fabulous ideas for novels.

Now, as luck would have it, she lives with her family, her horse and her dog in a little white house on a hill in the middle of an old dairy farm. There’s a creek down the front and a refurbished barn up the back where she has set herself up in the most perfect corner for writing stories. In her spare time she works as a craniosacral therapist and an energy healer.