Why do we write? Why do we feel driven to do it? Perhaps its a state of mind. Some believe it is a calling.
One thing is certain, many like myself willingly sacrifice what most would consider a normal existence for an impoverished lifestyle of self-imposed solitude in order that the story which has consumed us for months or years in many cases, finally appears in print.
Pass any of us in the street and you would be hard pressed to pick us out of the crowd. Most of my neighbours have no clue that I’m a published author. If pressed by one of them, would I tell them? Maybe, if I thought they were genuinely interested. Most are not.
Touch wood that so far no one round here has ever asked me the inane question that writers of my acquaintance in the US have been confronted with from time to time, “Would I have read anything you’ve written?”
I wonder how many of them wished they’d answered with, “How the hell would I know, I’m not a bloody mind reader you idiot?” or a series of four letter words to that effect. Perhaps the reason I haven’t been subjected to stupidity like that is because the only thing my neighbours do know for certain about me is that I don’t suffer fools.
After twenty-five, going on twenty-six years of writing, what is patently obvious to me is that we are a breed apart from the rest…