Recent reading has been limited because of concentrating on the final edit of Past imperfect, but one book that I return to often is Margaret Craven’s I heard the owl call my name. Its appeal for me is twofold – firstly the apparent simplicity of the writing style (if only I could emulate that) and secondly the story itself. It tells of the clash of old and new cultures, disenchantment of the young, and the slow impact of change. The story is told around the experiences of a young priest sent to minister to this isolated community in the midst of natural beauty. It resonates for me.