Nandi felt the dry chaffing of hemp over her fingers. The tattered rope slipped from her hands and she was flung into space. The humid afternoon clustered in her nostrils, the air a cloying contrary measure to her temporary detachment. She half closed her lids in naked enjoyment. The multiple shades of light green, terracotta and sunburnt yellow on the dam shoreline meshed. She revelled in the sense of freedom before gravity would inevitably intervene and pull her downward. Drunken by flight Nandi considered whether a journey far from home would also propel one into such satisfaction. Does distance liberate? How far does one have to travel for your past to become a hazed teal horizon, a meaningless flicker in time and space, and what is lost along the way?
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It is a constant challenge to find time to dedicate to a project that is abstracted from your ‘job’ commitments, relationships and civil responsibilities. A first novel is a scary and illusive thing to pursue. There is nothing to show for it whilst it is being created and no one (including you) really knows whether its total crap or not. Its just a document on my Macbook. A blip on the ether. And yet it represents hours and hours of iteration, reiteration, drafts and redrafts. It represents energy, emotion, tears and sweat.