I was approached by someone today who had read my book and felt compelled to comment about it. The conversation was quite uncomfortable for me because it was all good – better than, even. It went on for several minutes at which point I overcame by modesty and acknowledged who I was actually talking to. Standing at half the size of me was an eighty-something-or-rather year old with enough jelly beans in her deep cereal bowl to consequently propel her to keep grabbing my arm and pull me closer.

Is this is my readership market?

I intended my stories to be read by young adults, sixty-years younger than this woman. Thinking about this awhile longer I realised that those people who do like to come up and speak about my first book with proud voices and big smiles are either twenty years from birth or at the other end of the spectrum.

The people in between?

They’re possibly caught up in something else at the moment…