Updated: Jan 24, 2022
She knew writing the book would be dangerous. She knew it would dredge up parts of her life she had tried to forget and gloss over. She knew it would hurt her family. She knew that by writing it she would become naked to the world. She knew she would be judged. She knew she would be watched. She knew she would be analysed. But she wrote it anyway. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. Each word fell from her fingertips with ease, she wasn’t thinking what to write, or how to write it – it just came – gently, smoothly, just waiting on the page to someday explode. Every night, after her child went to bed she headed to her study with a cup of tea and a pack of Marlboro Lights cigarettes, and there she would sit, typing, typing away, her fingers doing her thinking, while the pages became fuller with words that became stories, that became the thing that would eventually ruin her life.