Judith is a London-based writer and journalist. She won 1st Prize for the London Short Story Prize 2019, and 3rd Prize for the Brick Lane Bookshop Short Story Prize 2019. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway, University of London, and graduated with Distinction in 2019. Judith is currently writing a novel.
Judith was the typical child-with-her-nose-in-a-book and dreamed of being a writer. After studying English Literature, as an interiors journalist she wrote for national magazines as well as publishing fourteen books on design. Then she turned her gaze to fiction and did the Faber Academy Writing a Novel six-month course, followed by an MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway, University of London. She has won several short story competitions including First Prize for the London Short Story Prize 2019, Second Prize for the Exeter Story Prize 2018 and Third Prize for the Brick Lane Bookshop Short Story Competition 2019. She has been shortlisted variously for the Yeovil Literary Prize 2022, the London Short Story Prize 2018 and the Bath Short Story Award 2017. Her fiction has been published in The Fairlight Book of Short Stories Vol 1 and numerous short story prize anthologies.
Q: If you could travel back in time, which of the great writers would you like to meet and why?
A: I’d love to meet Charlotte Bronte, as Jane Eyre is such a nuanced and strong character. If I’m allowed two writers, then it would the visionary William Blake; I’ve always been intrigued by his poems and artwork.
Q: Do you have a lucky writing talisman? If so, what is it?
A: My great-grandmother published a book of translated German fairytales in 1900, and my great-aunt wrote a novel in 1915. I have a copy of each book sitting on my writing desk.
Q: What superpower would you like to have and why?
A: I’d love to be able to go back in time – just for a day – and experience the early nineteenth century. The cadence of speech, the smells, the sensation of wearing a corset and navigating everyday life in long skirts!
It was my mother’s last Christmas, though we didn’t know it then. She was slower, I recall; less stately, less loquacious, less of her all round. The fierce pince-nez on the end of her nose, yet still, her summer rose blush dusted on sharp cheekbones, a black dress, that diamond brooch of twin flowers, pinned …
A well-aimed kick winds her; gasping, she bends double. Late afternoon, deep-dark February, and on the snaking branches of the common limes outside, snow sits tight, a vanilla crust ready to drop. She knows it won’t fall. There’s not a breath of winter wind. The air, it’s freezing. Another, insistent kick, a dense heel to …