From Roots to Realms: Why I Write Worlds That Heal
GUEST AUTHOR FEATURE WRITTEN BY: GAYLE ALLSOP
I’ve always written.
Even before I called myself a writer, words were how I made sense of the world. As a child, I wrote about dragons and monsters, but sadly those stories were stolen by a neighbour. As an adult, they started as rhymes for my children—playful, silly verses about school days, superheroes, and small victories. That’s how Autism Is My Superpower and Chatterbox were born: stories written from love, from wanting my kids to see their voices celebrated rather than misunderstood. Writing gave me a way to show them that difference isn’t a flaw; it’s a superpower of its own.
But long before the children’s books—before Sasswood and Eve—there was something else behind the words. A girl who grew up learning that silence was safer than truth. My childhood carried its share of abandonment and confusion. I learned early how to read a room, how to shrink myself to fit other people’s comfort, how to measure love by the weight of what I gave away. That kind of learning stays with you. It shapes how you survive and, if you’re lucky, how you eventually heal.
I lived in books to escape the real world. As a child, it was Enid Blyton who saved me. In my 20s, it was Danielle Steel. In my 30s, I read Stephen King and James Herbert. In my 40s, I lived in the worlds of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Now, in my early 50s, I adore cosy paranormal mysteries—Nancy Warren, Annabel Chase, Matteson Wynn.
For thirty years, I lived under coercive control and emotional abuse—quiet, subtle, everyday erasures of self that left me a ghost in my own story. The kind of control that doesn’t leave bruises, just hesitation. I kept life steady for my children, smiling through the storms, but inside I was fading. I got to the point where I believed that I had no place on this Earth—no purpose, no use.
Writing was my rebellion—my small act of freedom. It gave me a voice when I wasn’t allowed one anywhere else.
Then came Eve—the book that lived in my head for years before it ever touched paper. The characters arrived before the plot did. They whispered, argued, refused to be quiet. Eve became my mirror: a story of loss, courage, and the quiet strength of finding your own light. When I finally wrote the last page, I cried—not just because the story had ended, but because I’d proved to myself that I could finish something born entirely from my own truth.
It was the first time I’d chosen my voice over my fear.
After Eve, the stories kept coming—daft, bonkers, wild, funny, heartfelt worlds that seemed to grow from the cracks left behind. The Sasswood Chronicles arrived like a burst of laughter after years of holding my breath. Talking animals, enchanted biscuits, chaos in every chapter—it sounds ridiculous on paper, and that’s exactly why it works. Sasswood became a place where the serious world couldn’t reach me: a forest full of kindness and mayhem where I could rewrite everything I’d lost—laughter, sarcasm, trust, community, joy.
I didn’t realise until later that I was building healing worlds—places where broken things could still bloom and laughter was an act of defiance.
Every world I write begins with a wound. Then I plant a story over it, and something new grows. Writing Eve helped me process what I couldn’t say aloud. Writing Sasswood helped me remember how to laugh again. Both worlds (one raw and human, one whimsical and wild) taught me the same truth: creativity isn’t an escape from life; it’s a way of living through it.
People often describe my work as “whimsical,” but to me, it’s restorative. Each book is a quiet rebellion against despair—proof that humour and hope can coexist, that you can rebuild from ruins and still make something beautiful. I write from the roots, even when the soil is messy, because that’s where the real stories live.
The forest of Sasswood is a reflection of that journey, with every creature carrying a piece of me: the blind mole who trusts his instincts, the magpie queen who builds her crown from scraps, the hedgehog who wears odd socks because matching them isn’t the point. They’re all lessons in resilience disguised as jokes.
And maybe that’s why readers connect with them. They see their own chaos reflected back, softened by warmth. Sasswood doesn’t ask for perfection—it just reminds you that it’s okay to begin again.
Now, when I write, I think of roots—of what lies unseen but keeps everything standing. Healing, to me, isn’t about forgetting; it’s about re-rooting. Taking what was painful and growing something living from it. Every story I write plants a small light where once there was darkness.
Because if I’m honest, the truth is this:
I still carry the weight of old stories—the ones where I was small, or voiceless, or too much, or not enough. They don’t vanish when you heal. They whisper sometimes, testing the strength of your new roots. But now, instead of believing them, I write them down. I turn them into characters who learn, forgive, stumble, and rise. Writing doesn’t erase the pain—it transforms it into something that can breathe.
There’s a moment in every book I write where I feel the same quiet thing: relief. The relief of having spoken—of having turned what once silenced me into something that can sing.
That’s what I mean when I say I write worlds that heal. Not perfect worlds—just healing ones. Worlds where laughter can exist beside grief. Where softness is strength. Where hope isn’t naïve, but chosen.
I write because I survived, and because I want my stories to offer someone else that same small, steady light.
If my words can whisper to even one reader, you’re not alone, then everything I’ve lived through—and everything I’ve written—will have been worth it.
By becoming a Rubber Rooster Media Subscriber, you’re helping sustain independent creatives who write freely—without censorship, filters, or fear.
