Writing a book involves a certain amount of navel gazing. That is where it "organically grows"out from you see. I have a very ordinary navel. It is an innie navel, not half as exciting as an outie navel. An outie navel reaches out in a little tendril, an antennae that prods the air reflectively and catches a whole swirl of ideas. Ideas that then spring about inside your tummy, giving you tiny butterfly niggles, till you retch out over sheets and sheets of A4 pages. The Innie navel is hideously self obssessed, with a propensity to avoid the big picture. It collapses over and in itself, going deeper and deeper down into a territory that it has explored since childhood. And the pickings there are slim. So ultimately innie navel gazing writers are destined for two things. Collapsing and falling so deep into themselves that they emerge hideously scarred and come out with a 'Confessions of a.....' book that other hopelessly self involved people (a majority) read. The other destiny is the collapse and fall into and then right through yourself, discovering the universality of the outie navel in a painfully personal way. And the stories you tell then are as old as the universe itself, camouflaged in the here and now. So here's my wish. To fall right through, without a safety net and remain sane enough to bring back the stories.