LAMB: You bought this notebook from the op-shop a month or two ago. You took it home and set to work writing your first ‘novel’.  After a few pages of writing you took a break. Writing a novel is tough work. I thought you’d forgotten about it but a few days latter you brought it out again and pressed on with your masterpiece. You continued like this over the next month or so, getting it out whenever inspiration would strike. Sometimes every few days, sometimes every couple of weeks. Mostly, you just put down random combinations of the letters ‘A’ and ‘M’ because they happen the first two letters of your name. Occasionally you would throw in a side-ball, like an ‘E’ or an ‘L’ – also letters in your name. Today you sat beside me in bed and tinkered away on your novel while I edited photos and listened to podcasts of ‘This American Life’. We sat in silence, each of us intently focused on our individual projects, until you announced that you had finally finished your book. Finished, as in, all the blank spaces had been filled in. You let out a sigh and closed the book. A look of pride and achievement on your tiny five year old face.

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