'I'm sure you will do well in everything you try.' Parting words from John Smith, Senior Barrister's Clerk, and my boss. It was January 1974, one year (give or take), to the day after I'd taken a first tentative step across the threshold of 4 Temple Court; my first foray into the world of full-time employment.   

Whether JS was just being kind on that icy winter's day (we actually had seasons back then), I have always attempted to live up to the responsibility, I felt, which came attached. My other abiding memory of that famous institution of educated excellence was of a world where books were as big a deal as the men and women who made use of them. 

Four decades and more have passed, several careers have come and gone, none, I must confess, involving the world or creative writing, and here I am, attempting to craft a website that is concentrated solely on the business of writing - mine! Hence the confession of being: 'full of fraudulent anxiety.' 

As I sit here in my sixty-eighth year, I take comfort in believing that throughout my working life, I did rise to the challenge of 'doing well in each new endeavour, whilst never reaching the pinnacle of excellence in any. Ever the optimist, I'd like to think that my best working days are still ahead of me...but that's for you to decide. 

_________________________________________________________________________    

I've always enjoyed thinking up stories and writing poetry, but until now, keeping the former locked inside my head, and the latter, scribbled only on cards or letters, as tokens of love and affection. But, then coronavirus came along, and together with countless others, I took the plunge. But void of any creative writing experience, and with no family or friends with a writing background to turn to for advice, I did what I thought best in order to get started. I visited my local library and took away a book by Stephen King, on how to write a novel.

The inspiration to write my first novel came from another image that has occupied the depths of my mind since I was a 10-year-old child. It lodged itself there on the day I stood, afraid, behind the front door, listening to a policeman inform my father that my mother had died. Whatever else I may go on to write (and share), I'd like to believe that nothing else will give me greater personal satisfaction than having my mother's image resurrected through the pages of my first published book. And, should you decide to read it, I sincerely hope that when you reach the end, she fills your head with loving thoughts, the way she continues to fill mine.