As a child I was encouraged to visit the local library as often as possible. In those days, families of our class and income struggled to have enough money for food and utilities, so books were only available through the benevolence of the local council. Yet what a gift to give to the people! Sitting quietly, wrapped in the warmth of infinite words and the song of a gentle wind from under the ill-fitting door, I would travel across continents, to new worlds, back in time and into the future. I would enter the minds of the wise, the cruel, the brave and the neglected. Sadly, my lifelong love of books is forever destined to dance a pitiful, unequal waltz with my lifelong love of writing. As the books sway and glide with great precision around my imagination, my clumsy pen lurches across the page, treading on toes and issuing all kinds of apologies, in search of the perfect sentence. Occasionally I find some words and place them in an order with which I am happy and that, for me, is a good day indeed.
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