I am a banker by the day. People usually try to imply that my life is easy. I have a 9 to 5 job and not much pressure. How wrong that is!
Often I am so tired that I just want to hit the bed as soon as I get back home. There’s enough pressure to give in to. But I don’t cave under pressure though I am at a loss because I cannot write. I cannot write as often as I want to; as much as I want to.
If there was a machine that could give me extra time, I’d write novels.
I’d write novels in the stream of consciousness narrative, a peek inside the mind of a paranoid person.
I’d write that story set in a post apocalyptic world that has gone to the dogs.
And another about a woman who finds her lost love back again in a terrorist attack and tends to him, rediscovering passion and herself.
I will take you inside my nightmares where bodies lie piled up at the Town centre, only to be stripped of whatever material they might be possessing on them before they are scooped up by cranes and dumped in a gigantic landfill.
A bus plunges into a roaring river and what the thoughts are of one passenger who narrates it to you. From the moment the bus skids off a bridge to the second life leaves her body. You are going to read every detail.
Take my hand and enter the world of someone who has lost all hope. Walk in his footsteps only to discover the footprints stopping right before a ledge on the terrace of a highrise. While you walk, I will take you through everything that brought him here, gave him the assurance that death was the better option.
Yes, if I had extra time, I will be prolific.