Ghostwriter
Part One
My mother loved keeping diaries. For as long as I could remember she had a written account for most things. Over the years her obsession for keeping a notebook in her bag or in the drawer of the end table in our front room, or even the medicine cupboard in the bathroom so she could write whilst in the bath, slowly grew and grew over the years. I loved her for it though. On my birthdays from the age of about 15, she would find an account she had written about me, rip it out of the notebook and place it in my birthday card. Now at twenty-one and motherless these accounts are the one thing that help me still feel close to her.
