I'm sick, in bed, with a book.
Apart from the sickness, it's one of my favourite things.
The hours spent under warm blankets, cool cotton sheets.
Shaking off sleep to finish this chapter.
Waking up, the light still on, the book fallen down.
Where was I up to? I don't remember this part.
Must be further back.
Search for the last dog-eared corner, working my way forward.
Filling in the blanks when I dozed off and on.
Like catching up with an old friend.
That's what this book, and all the others have been, old friends.
And the adventures we've shared together.
African safaris, bombing raids over the Rhur valley.
Charging into battle, armour clad sword raised on high.
Running through jungles machine gun at the ready.
In the depths of the oceans.
Hunting submarines, giant squid and whale.
Falling in love.
Adventures that take me off world, to moons planets and stars.
Known and unknown.
Worlds that don't exist, yet seem so real.
And yet it is all a fiction.
But there are true stories as well.
People that lived, loved, laughed and wept.
They broke the sound barrier, scaled Everest, conquered the frozen poles.
They didn't quite walk on the moon. They went to sea and to war.
I went with them all, and came back again for a new adventure.
That is why I write, to share the adventure.
To tell you stories real and imagined, worlds I have and have not seen.
We will visit them together.
Walking the deserts, the forested hills and grasslands.
Cross rivers and oceans, soaring to the highest heights.
And come back safe, plan the next adventure and set off once again.
That is why I write, and that is why you read.