So, you’ve written nearly half a million words, covered seven years of her life. 

She’s circled the globe from Ireland only to come back again. 

She’s fought in Sudan, had titanic struggles in India, and showdowns of cinematic extravagance in America. 

She’s fallen to near unimaginable levels of sadness, yet she’s bounced back from each fall.   

Prison walls could not contain her, nor the cruelty of men defeat her. 

Amy is five feet and two inches of flame haired resilience hailing from Dromahair in County Leitrim. 

She is passionate and fiercely determined to rebalance wrongs.

She gets knocked down, she suffers, she bleeds, but she learns her lessons, and learns them well. 

Hooded crows follow her, Celtic myth and legend flow through her.  She is the incarnation of the Mórrígan, she is Badb, and she is herself. 

The tree of life, butterflies and mystery reveal themselves during her dreams, some supportive, many merely cryptic in their interpretation. 

She has an appreciation for the creations of Messer’s Jamison and Powers, and occasionally indulges in the escape of narcotics. 

She is happy to watch uniformed magnificence march past, to shudder at such displays of proud manhood. 

Such masculinity is not how her breath is stolen; her back arches for an altogether fairer fayre…

But most of all, for those that wrong her, for those foolish enough to incur her wrath, a sword may be levelled towards them, maybe a pistol too, but the declaration is one they most definitely should heed for she is death, she is Amy Grace!

“Is bás mé, tá mé Amy Grace”.