Foreword from Singing Songs (Continued)

I went out that afternoon, bought a Smith Corona typewriter and taught myself to type. It took me three days to type around ten pages, double-spaced. But I did it, and with a lurching stomach, sent my scraps of writing off in FedEx pouch.

Four days later my phone rang. It was Charlotte. "You're a writer," she said. "Write more and send it to me." And so I did. Four years later my short stories had become my first novel, Singing Songs.

I sold it to the world not just as fiction, but as springing entirely from my imagination, completely alien to my own experience. Because I was scared to admit the truth. That this dirty little scrappy kid could have been me. I wasn't ready to publicly acknowledge that abuse scarred my own childhood. Didn't want to let people that close.

Well, I’m older now, hopefully wiser, braver,

still scared, but that's okay. With this new edition of Singing Songs, I feel that it is important for me to claim my connection to these stories, for myself and others who have had a past like mine. Because if we continue to hide, to play the pristine, perfect, everything's a picnic soundtrack, we do the world a disservice.

I hope you enjoy my book, born out of my memories as a child, my hopes, hardships and fears. And read it with a warmth in your belly, because in many ways Anna's spirit mirrors mine, and I am certain that she, just like me, went on to have a wonderful, blessed, very lucky life

Best wishes,

Meg Tilly

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