Sometimes I get asked why I write. It is one of those questions that simultaneously has no answer and a thousand answers. In the beginning I just wrote. It was that simple. I reached for a pen and words poured out of me. I didn't think about it much. But eventually even I began to wonder why I was spending so much time and effort on this odd, frustrating, wonderful, rewarding, exhausting, exhilarating thing called writing.
I decided my one tiny little life is simply not enough for me. I am greedy. I want to experience so many things: I want to be young, old, a woman, a man, an labourer, a socialite, a hermit, a movie star, an astronaut, a deep sea diver, a king, a queen and the court jester. And alone with just my pen and a pad of paper I can be all these things and more.