Greetings from the compulsive writer, writing for writings sake. I always hope to be recognised and appreciated, but even without recognition, I write still. And when I write, I always have in mind a Faberge Egg, intricately patterned, exquisitely designed but crafted in the colours of the Caribbean. As a result, I edit, rewrite, edit and reread, hoping for perfection. But there comes a point where I have to stop, and for Brago’s story I have, at last, I think, reached that point. I hope you will enjoy it. The title came first, and wouldn’t let me go, much like Brago’s Baccoo.

How could I not write it, Brago And The Baccoo?

Taken from the Old Fisher (a novel to be set in print, a hardcopy, an artefact a way to be appreciated. Look out for it.)