For the past week I’ve woken up every night in a cold sweat. It’s not the thought of bills, chores or work that wake me… it’s my novel.
My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens. Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus. For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library.
I have a friend who is a psychologist. I have yet to see a person meet her and not worriedly suggest that she has been analysing them. Little do they know that this couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s not my friend who’s watching them. It’s me.