I. K. Paterson


Kia ora.

When I have time, and I’m not procrastinating by scrubbing the kitchen bench or folding washing, I am attempting to write. I gaze out my window towards the picturesque supermarket rooftop, with its rows of seagulls on rows of extractor fans, sipping chai tea and nibbling on dark chocolate (me, not the seagulls), and try to coax from the depths of my brain the weirdest images I possibly can. It’s actually quite relaxing.

I’ve only been seriously writing for a couple of years, but am pleased to have had a few stories and few poems published. I have a website:


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