Every story begins somewhere and this beginning was in Cornwall in the UK, relaxed, happy and my mind always whirring.
No one knew I was away, three of my supervisees contacted me seeking guidance and I never entirely slipped out of work mode. It started with a conversation that left me wondering how far empathy can stretch before it turns into something else entirely.

I remember thinking about what happens when good intentions meet human fallibility, when listening turns into rescuing, then what if curiosity starts to look like control. Out of that question came The Black Book, the story of a therapist who believes he can heal and judge at the same time.

Here’s the very first fragment that became the book:

You tell me things you would never tell anyone else. You sit forward in the chair, twisting your own skin on your hands as you try to trust me in the silence of this room. That’s what people know, that it’s a sealed room, a place without judgement and where their words are safe.

It’s changed since then, edited, tweaked and hopefull refined. And it’s complete (for now) at 76,000 words. But is a manuscript ever really complete where a writer is concerned? Until it’s submitted and a response is given I find I am always editing.

Just me, or others too?