To My Readers,

I am the author of the Scribe & Scribble collection, and I’d like to share how it all began.

I have loved reading and writing for as long as I can remember. As a little girl—no older than nine—I dreamed of writing a book someday. But something in me—fear, perhaps—always stood in my way.

Last year, during my very long commute to work, I began writing Just Like You Are Mine in my head. At first, I didn’t realise it would become a book. It was, at best, an entertaining daydream in the midst of soul-crushing traffic. But every day thereafter, that vivid daydream came back to me. Each morning as I drove, the story in my mind grew more layered, more indulgent—almost decadent, like a dessert left to set overnight.

One evening, after a regular day at work and the usual dinner, bath, and bedtime routine with my children, I sat in front of my laptop, checking emails, as I always did. It was 11pm, and I was on borrowed time. As any mother knows, we are always one cry for “Mamma” away from prematurely retiring to bed. But that night, I closed my inbox and opened a Word document instead.

I wrote the story within an hour. It had been waiting in my head, ready to fall onto the page rather effortlessly. And suddenly, at thirty-four years old, I had finally written my first book—at least, the first draft.

As I hit save, I found myself reflecting on the many excuses I had hidden behind for twenty-six years—the most amusing of which was, “I don’t have time.” Because there I was: an exhausted mother of two children under four, with a full-time job, having finally done what all the past versions of myself—the carefree teenager, the sleep-in-until-10am university student, the newly married “let’s just get takeout” wife—had not. Did I mention it was 11pm?

I spent the next few weeks editing, refining, and shaping the book… and then it sat in my Google Drive for months. Eventually, with a gentle nudge from my husband—who believed in me and in this dream—I began to share it. I was inspired by my children and had grown some bravery in these bones. And perhaps somewhere along the transition to motherhood and all the adulting it entails, I realised I needed to return to that nine-year-old girl who loved writing. So, here I am—having returned to myself.

I now place this story in your hands with joy, knowing that more and more children and parents will share in its spirit—and in the spirit of the stories still to come.

With love,
Saadiya