In my notebooks, years of them; in the backs of cupboards, where loose proof copies were sent to the naughty step; in compulsive thoughts that are part of 3am and 4am waking times; behind guilt’s pathetically flimsy skin, shamed by what the world would or wouldn’t think; under fear of damage I might do. There, in those places, I found something.

Balls. Courage. Some attitude and respect for the craft, for the characters, for the plot, for the life of the book that took nine years of mine.

So enough running, enough cowarding, enough scapegoating morality and weakness.

The book. It’s back. This time, it’s getting out. This time, I’m going to drivel at you till you read it, even if it might kill you. Yes.

Even this book will kill you.

But at least you’ll die with a good book in your hands.