How I am ever able to write a book amidst the myriad of special interests and obsessions which colour my daily life I will never know.
It is around 04:00 am and I have woken blurry eyed from a dream where my brother Richard has committed murder most foul. The sound effects were provided by my partner Gina’s snoring.
So here I am under the duvet typing without my glasses and I can’t see a thing. But whichever small Honda it is, the research of which almost plagues my daily existence, is quiet (for now).
I just remembered the entire premise of my book was to hinge on the idea that gurus separate themselves from society in a way that would make them prime candidates for autism.
In a sense it was Michael Fitzgerald that triggered that idea when I met him in Slovenia.
If I could speak aloud there would be more. Even I am not autistic enough to wake my partner because my book is flowing. Though I probably already have. Or was it her that woke me? I don’t recall.
Anurajyati (be in love!),