Patchwork Indigo: A novel by J. B. Sommerset

There is an old adage that asks the question: If you wrote a book about your life, would anyone want to read it? This is the wrong question. It’s not if anyone would want to read it, it’s Who would you want to read it? What kind of person would you want to know the details and secrets of your life? Who else would understand what rum cake, peppermint and used pine smells like? Who has known the Connecticut Blue, the light of the dying fireflies, or the warm glowing surf of a bio-luminescent tide in the waters of the south Pacific? Who understands suffering the icy winds of Patagonia or braving mountains in Bhutan? Is there anyone out there who has watched the churning emulsion and scorching light of an atomic blast, or seen the oily radioactive sands cresting the devastation of an empty world? If you had been involved in something terrible and unimaginable, would you want to tell anyone? There are billions of people in the world but only one will truly understand or be able to do anything about it, they will empathize with the journey and know what it means, they will value it more than the destination. The real question is: Who would you write it for?