Central to Nowhere

About the Author

D. J. Blackmore has milked cows and made cheese. She’s bartered house-made Gouda for wine at a boutique vineyard near her home in the Hunter Valley, New South Wales. She has collected eggs barefoot from the hen-house. A short stint with horses saw her falling off, concussing herself in the process. She broke her best arm. Now she steers clear of animals of the equine persuasion. Perhaps you will see her mountain-biking through bush tracks, or standing on the sidelines of a Dirt Track Meeting to watch her husband's need for speed on a motorcycle. If you can’t find her there, she’s probably in the rose garden at home. Wherever you find her, she will be carrying a laptop and a head full of ideas. The author prefers to stir adrenaline with her pen rather than horsepower. She’s reared babies and Border Collies. Being the mother of five is her greatest achievement. Writing is a close second. D. J. Blackmore has milked cows and made cheese. She’s bartered house-made Gouda for wine at a boutique vineyard near her home in the Hunter Valley, New South Wales. She has collected eggs barefoot from the hen-house. A short stint with horses saw her falling off, concussing herself in the process. She broke her best arm. Now she steers clear of animals of the equine persuasion. Perhaps you will see her mountain-biking through bush tracks, or standing on the sidelines of a Dirt Track Meeting to watch her husband's need for speed on a motorcycle. If you can’t find her there, she’s probably in the rose garden at home. Wherever you find her, she will be carrying a laptop and a head full of ideas. The author prefers to stir adrenaline with her pen rather than horsepower. She’s reared babies and Border Collies. Being the mother of five is her greatest achievement. Writing is a close second.