LITERATURE
I used to think that my greatest fear was to write, and have no one read. To disseminate words, and have them falling like so many dead leaves on a cracked pavement. To roll out pages, and be greeted by robust rounds of silence.
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If you remain very silent, if you are still, you will feel a ripple. It is a small ripple, the faintest hint of a murmur of a flutter of a lightwave, but it is there. It is the silent tug at our hearts, the undercurrent of our lives, the silver threads of being that gently wind and unwind as we move and dance and play.
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Mills & Boon's passage to India is not simply a holiday romance.
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