'Hissing and seething, the past hauled itself up from the basement and stood before her. Now facing each other eye to eye as equals, her mind froze. Should she tend to the frightened child that scurried to the centre of her soul for protection, or step into the woman she was bound by destiny to become? Should she turn heels and run to the hills or stand her ground and gift herself the truth? She closed her eyes and called upon her angels.'
I had a real sense today that the book I am writing is the wrong one. A calling from so deep within me, it almost ached. A thin voice calling, longing to be nurtured. My pen is unpicking stitches from war wounds that never healed. An old story, yearning to be told.
But the question is, how do I know that I am strong enough to tell it?