Debbie Morrison
Once upon a time, I was a perfectly respectable London professional — a chartered accountant with a law degree, a Blackberry (remember those?), and too many sensible shoes. Then common sense prevailed, romance called, and I swapped London’s Zone One for Devon’s Zero Signal. I still wonder if leaving the City was brave or simply plot research taken to a reckless extreme.
Now my “head office” is a polytunnel: no Wi-Fi, but plenty of fresh air and flourishing tomatoes. The plants photosynthesise while I draft havoc; technically off-grid, creatively on fire.
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Meanwhile, the dogs run the editorial obstruction department. They possess zero publishing experience yet veto scenes with a single raised paw. Oh, and their union insists on edible compensation only.
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These days, I know the real price of life’s essentials: a good haircut, a great friend, and the joy of a proper night’s sleep.
I write love stories for grown-ups — warm, witty, stuffed with second chances and the kind of relationships where affection and exasperation create irresistible chemistry – for better for worse
Debbie xx
Think of my indie “publishing house” as one woman, no award-strewn empire, no two-legged staff — just me, two obstinate dogs, and a biscuit budget.
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I’ve tried not writing. It didn’t go very well so I need readers. Not many, just the excellent sort who laugh in the right places. I hope you'll be one of them.
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Happy reading!