A new book completed yesterday, likely the last of a bunch that will be drip fed into my store for the rest of the year. Tales await the blank tea-stained pages, which rustically rest in folds between the leather, like paper petticoats. I sometimes feel the urge to write in my books but I know they are not for me.
I resist the urge and continue creating more. Someone will pour their tales here, stories not for me, or anyone; just for the someone who writes. I feel like I am unfolding a secret, a whisper yet whispered, a tale yet told.
I present the paper, to the unsuspecting soul who discloses the unthinkable and impossible dreams, yet believes in them so deeply that perhaps by the end of the book, they are living it.
The power of the written word. Actually picking up a pen, and writing it down.
This will happen. That will happen. I will do this. I will go here with this person. Achieve that.
I think there is something in this.
A little sojourn up the coast, and I captured these images. An unfinished journey, and I shall return and go further afar. There is much to be discovered in this land of ours.
The book, Tapestry Tales (a name I have used over and over... I guess they are a family or sorts) is now available here.