Reading is a joy but sometimes writing feels like your innards have been scooped out like a Halloween pumpkin and you�re still scouring the insides for enough to make a decent soup.

Yesterday I was reading through the last couple of chapters of the second draft of my next book, Heavenly Hirani�s School of Laughing Yoga, when I was suddenly deeply possessed by the most appalling notion that it wasn�t good enough; that I wasn�t good enough.

Who do I think I am, anyway? What do I know? I�m just someone who mostly just sits at home alone, typing and talking to the dog. Some days I don�t even make it out of my PJs.

Who will care? Why do I bother?

Then, I heard the familiar PING of an email arriving, and from the Heavens into my lap descended the following:

�Four months ago my father passed away and i became obsessed with honey. i had no idea why but started eating manuka honey like my life depended on it. i came across your novel the wedding bees and it all made sense. i wasn�t so crazy after all! Honey really is a healer.

Your book did more to ease my grief than anything else. now i am reading dolci di love and the timing couldn�t be more perfect. thank you for bringing colour back into my world. you are a wonderful writer and your stories dance a joy that�s rubbed off on me. i can�t wait for your next novel. thanks again.�

GG, and all the other GGs out there � you will care, so I will bother, and for the timely reminder, from the bottom of my sometimes battered heart � thank you, thank you, thank you.

XSK

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