I write into an old book that smells of dust and whose pages are floppy with damp. Sometimes the ink splodges onto the paper, other times it will barely leave the nib of my pen.

Where the writing takes place doesn’t matter to a publisher, but it matters a great deal to the author.

What compels me to write now is the same as all those years ago. It is the love of writing and storytelling, driven by a desire to escape.