I’ve been thinking the last couple of days about the “why” of writing. Why do I do this thing? Why do I want to? It certainly seems to be a tortuous experience, one in which I rarely see the point anymore, and yet I do it or wish I could do it.
I have a history of telling stories. Before I was writing them down, I was making them up. I had a running tale about Peter Pan and the Lost Boys in my head for years. (more…)