, , , , , , ,

Final Cover (1)

The blessings of the Almighty, the rays of the sun and the collaboration of the moon to beautify the scene are magnanimous. I am ecstatic to announce the birth of my baby – THE MURDER IN DESERT INN – my first published novel.

The silhouette of my castle in Spain had come to terms in reflection on the days that I was not writing. Too long ago, since I inscribed the book that was not published because I moved to another continent. My manuscript had been lost when all my belongings were put into the box and somehow disappeared. It was a fiction set in the ’70s of the experiences that I went through as a teenager. Living in a place far from the city where I was born and moulded, my life diverted to a different pathos. My status had changed and my conglomeration to a different culture emerged. My love for writing forgotten as I put it in the Pandora box unknowingly. To my exacting, many moons and suns passed by my indexes without me noticing as I was jubilant of the days being with my two adorable children. Would I be a mother if my first manuscript had been published? The best achievement ever in my life – needed and wanted by my neonates. Their sounding calls were the music to my ears. Their laughter and joys were the glee of my heart. Their weeping became the bombardment of chaos in my soul – I am needed and wanted to make them resonate in resounding bliss in the realm of Peter Pan in the Neverland. As I recount, my Chronicle has meanings and reasons for me to curve my road. Thus, my passion for writing went for an extended period of being dormant. In my conjuration and complete affliction, the rationale: to savour the boulevard of Nirvana as I toddle along each and every day of the splendid jiffy that became my sphere – Zion at its best. In the summation of my persona, I open myself to the Universe. Ergo, my Rhapsody, in my hand, fitted to the nanoscale event up to the whopping episode of my life.

As my children grow, my hands started to lose the grasp. Someday, I am not needed anymore to nurture and lead my offspring to the path to Euphoria. My daughter and son will have their lives and for that matter, I will go back to where I started – Myself. Regardless of whether I have someone I love beside me, the moment of pleasure with my babies were the most rewarding of them all. For the caress of my spirit, I have brought up the two beautiful creatures in this world.

To the tangibility that the rotation of the earth on its axis will revolutionise to the movement of the Universe, in my aloneness, my Pandora box opened and the paragons glimmered to the summit of its brightness. My fingers fiddled my pen to inscribe my feelings. My thoughts did not deliberate not even a second but only to escalate, for the moment had come for me to write again. My convalescent heart commanded that my faculty of mind must go back to the arena that I nourished when I was young – Creative Writing.

The Murder in Desert Inn was born in the desert of Western Australia. The beautiful waterless land is my friend and ally – my utmost inspiration to the world of my surreal realism. For in my totality – the desert is an absolute gem – a mammon ground that helped me go back to my sphere.