Monique Singleton

Author of Primal Nature

About Monique Singleton

Being an “army brat” meant moving around a lot. It was a good way to live, to see the world and continuously broaden my horizons: to start cultivating my creativity and fantasy.

And grow it did.

From an very early age I have always drawn and painted a lot, making my own version of what was around me. Starting off copying reality, I expanded into a personal kind of augmented reality. Adding fantasy to the mix didn’t however relieve me of natural boundaries: the physiology needed to be right. 4 arms means four shoulders, for me even fantasy needs to be anatomically correct. This craving to combine reality with fantasy formed the basis of a career in art. Blending realistic full portraits with fantasy or animals became my trademark, and I did quite well for myself.

My Image

However, living off art is not an easy task, so practical as I am, I continued my never ending education, now in the area of Information technology. Yes I went into IT. Hey, a gal’s gotta live.

Ideas and creativity will not be denied their due and the stories, previously visualized in paintings, bubbled up and wouldn’t go away.
In the few quiet moments my busy life offered about 6 years ago, actual scenes started to unravel in my imagination. Random scenes, or so it seemed. It turned out they were all scenes from one story, one idea that my subconscious had already formed into a coherent story line: Primal Nature.

I decided to write them down. But where to begin? I wrote the first 20 pages and the last 2 in one go. In the resulting years I have been filling in the gaps. One story led to a book, one book led to two, to three. To new and fascinating storylines that propelled me to write and write and write.

I have found my passion. I want to tell stories.
Not just any story. Stories that will entertain, but will hopefully also give room for thought. Will encourage the reader to join me on my journey to explore the boundaries of who we are, what we are, what we could be.

If only we dream. If only we accept that the impossible is only improbable until someone proves that it exists.
The world is a big place. Who is to say that what I dream, what I write, isn’t out there somewhere.

‘The walls of the cell were closing in on her again. Sickly grey, damp and covered in mold, they were depressing…’