It’s uncommon – especially in your thirties – to meet people who are willing to listen to the uncensored truth of your private suffering. Everyone is too busy trying to survive their own lives and families. People are more likely to take in lost dogs than lost people. They’re less trouble.
It was supposed to be every writer’s dream when a Hollywood film producer bought the option to adapt my memoir for the big screen. Love with a Chance of Drowning was due to publish in three months time but the love itself was drowning. Quickly. Painfully. Publicly.