As a writer, I haunt bookstores.

As a writer, I haunt bookstores. Especially in strange towns on my travels, slipping in like a visiting ghost. The dim bookstore today had the scent of dry stacked print, of writer’s lives locked in sweet embalment. A pile of Wilbur Smith’s post-humous Egyptian historical novels sat on a display, encased in black hardback. This is where dreams come to die, and a few to sprout into life in the darkness. I love bookstores, just as I love ancient Egyptian tombs.