Writing a story is a strange thing. From a few disparate events, from transient moments or an overheard name or phrase, I create characters and places and a brand new story which didn’t exist before I created it, and even in the creation is still being created, being moulded, being redrafted, until it reaches something like real.
It’s a leap of faith too: firstly and, to me, most importantly, that it will work. That is will be any good. Secondly that anyone will enjoy reading it.
And there’s a whole level of something approaching arrogance, or maybe blind faith if I want to be a bit charitable. Just the feeling, the inclination that I can do it. That I can make things up, that I can write thousands of words, and that they will work together to create a story.
But mainly writing is something I do because I am compelled to. I get up at five every morning, drive to a nearby MacDonalds, buy myself a coffee, and I write for two hours. I just write.
It’s how I make sense of the world.