I made a heart-warming discovery recently. In a box in my cellar I found an unfinished novel I wrote when I was a teenager. Everything was still there, hand written: the three notebooks; a map of Great Britain ripped out of my school atlas; research notes; a list of characters; relevant historical events. I didn’t have to read the manuscript to know which book had inspired me to write it. But I won’t tell you, it is too personal. I don’t know you that well – yet.
However this wasn’t even my first try, you know. My first long story I wrote when I was in the third grade. It had self-made drawings and it told of adventures of few friends that had a lot of resemblance with me and my own friends at that time. And of course this gang had a dog. This book – yes yes, I dare call it that! You can laugh all you want! So as I was saying: this book is lost. I hope not for ever. I hope it will jump out of some treasure chest one day and make me cry happy tears. Again.