The sad demise of a writer.

I still find it strange being thought of as a writer of a great story such as this. One that all seem to like but that few seem to buy.

I suppose others tell people of this short novella, and a few read it and most like it, I garner awards and plaudits but it would be good to see a pound or two in my pocket. A thing that I seem to fail at constantly.

I suspect, if you note the comments on this, "Moonchild and other stories", "The River Sprite", "The River Girl" and "A Shiver" and so on that you will nte the good reviews, many lovers of my work and perhaps forgive my failures.