Once upon a time there was a girl named Tracy.

Every day she woke up feeling that there was something she knew she knew but couldn’t quite remember.

One day, she left home to travel the world by herself.

Because of that she wrote many a blog, email & wordy Whatsapp to reassure her loved ones that she was still alive (and her organs hadn’t been harvested by nefarious Nicaraguans).

Because of that she discovered her way with words.

She wrote and wrote and wrote some more.

Until finally, she remembered what she knew she knew but couldn’t quite remember.

My name is Tracy and that story is about me.

I discovered my love of words in Latin America, which sent me on a path to become a writer. A path that if you attempted to draw would go something like this: lay out piece of paper flat on table, insert crayon in mouth, lower face to table, close eyes, draw the Statue of Liberty.

Speaking of words, stick this in your pipe and smoke it:

“I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love someone, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in, and all your dreams. The way you drink your tea. How you decorate your home. Or party. Your grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks. And the way you feel. Life is art.” - Helen Bonham Carter

I agree with this sentiment all the way there and back.

Life is art. Life is a science experiment. It’s a poem. It’s a riddle. Life is a gift, a story, an invitation to weave magic every single day you open your eyes.

I care madly and deeply about love, becoming a better human and toasted cheese sandwiches. If you peered into my ears you’d find a curiosity shop, filled with nonsense, salt water and pens with mismatched lids. I believe in biting off more than you can chew and always having at least seventy-three books on the go at any one time.

Welcome to the world. Isn’t it miraculous?

And as the sign says: Leave dishevelled or leave now...