I took the Christmas break as an opportunity to do a bit of early Spring cleaning. And failed. Not through lack of effort but through a surfeit of distraction. This distraction came in the form of old stories that have lurked in a pile, buried in a suitcase (well more of a flight case really) and hidden from view for more years than I can figure. My first ever attempt at a novel lay at the bottom. A book that starts out on a sliver of paper nicked from a local Greek restaurant, while on holiday in Crete, and finishes in a blue hard back jotter. Hand written in far neater script that I can now achieve it was the original point and shoot manuscript. No planning, no idea of destination and no fear. A simple thought. A stranger hauling a back pack through the scrubland of an island gave rise to the impulse to write.

I remember the moment I saw him. I was standing on the back of a rented jeep; enjoying the wind and sun and unable to communicate with the others in the car. The back packer flashed by and given we were so far from civilisation I began to wonder where he had come from and where he was going. A drifter. An innocent drifter about to find his life on the line as he stumbles into the wrong town at the wrong time. Classic western stuff but with a Sci-Fi twist. I haven’t reached the end yet and I can’t remember what happened but I’ll let you know. After this one there are three more to be unearthed and I’m now wondering if it’s ok to get excited about reading your own work????

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