When I decided at the age of 14 that I wanted to write a book I had no idea where it would lead. The places it would take my mind, the people I'd get to know and yet that dream of potential that if I could just finish it to my own wish; that I could find a publisher; that it could engage all those unengaged, everyone who's promised me that however much they hate reading, or don't enjoy books that they would read it.

I sat in Ottakar's - that place named after my childhood's hero's story, full of inspiration, and I decided this would not be another short story, this would not be five pages of strange words of fiction, telling a story from the depths of my mind; my loves, my dreams, my fears, my hopes. This would be something that would be carried on tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and eventually I'd add something to it every week for three and a half years, some days completely oblivious to anything around me as I put the ink upon the page "Emma, you carry on, I'm locking up, let me know when you need to leave." Became as common place as "Emma? Where have you been? We've been open three hours already!" That was Silbury to me. This place of sanctuary where week after week I would sit and write, my second home, another family, my mood denoting my drink and the only person who dared drink Eggnog Mocha and that much Irish Cream Syrup.