To My Reader

My dear Reader,

It’s summer, a time of relaxing, swimming and barbecues. The time where our vitamin D reserves are stocked up before we must deal with the dreariness of winter again.

Summer, where the hissing of steak and sausages cooking on the BBQ is punctuated with the laughter of kids playing. Friends sit under the umbrella on the deck, enjoying the desultory conversation which wanders from one topic to another. No rush, no hurry.

Pouring another glass of wine, hands picking at snack food, men laughing with each other around the BBQ, women organizing the salads, mothers settling children’s squabbles.

And I look at this activity.

A Thought escapes the conversations around me, infiltrating my mind. The thought unwinds, unravels its tantalizing concept and I follow it through the labyrinth that is my creativity. It beckons to me as it goes around a corner, and I hasten to catch up in case Thought disappears altogether and I lose track of where it is heading, metastasizing, changing, and growing as I chase after Thought, seeking to seize hold of it, force it to show itself clearly.

Lost in my own labyrinth, The concept of conversation swirling around me fades into a whisper, and I long to go home so I can start writing.

And then another Thought follows this convolution of internal activity.

‘Is it worth the energy expended to write?’ I think of the hours spent alone in my study; of Stan alone with whatever he is doing. I pursue these concepts, bouncing the ball of pro and con. Up and down, around, through, over, under.

Does anyone read my books? Would they be interested in this one?

“Justine. Justine, earth to Justine where are you?” The person I had been engaged in conversation with interrupts my pursuit of Thought.

“Oh sorry, I was busy writing my next book,” I laugh.

She laughs.

“Write the thoughts now, and I want to be one of your pre-readers when you write the book.” and then because she knows me so well, hands me paper and a pen.

Thus, many months later, after Thought is conceived, carried and nurtured, Thought is then brought to birth.

A book, formed in the imagination of my mind, cradled for months on my computer, and just like the human birth process, is brought to life, to be handed from my heart to yours.