Why I write

Do you ever think how that person you were stopped beside at the red light, and awkwardly looked over to, has a life of their own. Just as complex as yours, if not more. Yet after the light turns green, they become just another fleeting thought that is left behind.

Just one year in the life of one person could fill dozens of books. What about 10 years in the life of that person? Hundreds of books. And for the whole life of a person, thousands of books could be filled. And what about the 7.7 billion other people alive today? And that is just today. That is what inspires me to write. There are so many weird, wonderful, wacky and unbelievable stories just waiting to be told. Each person's life just as meaningful as the next, yet most of their stories go unknown to us. And mixed in with the wild tales, are the equally interesting stories of the everyday, the seemingly mundane, which is anything but. The way the rain sounds on a tin roof, the way the sun streams through a chink in the curtains and the smell of fresh spring morning air. It's these things, big and small that I hope I capture when I write. The world and all it is filled with, inspires me.

And filling pages with stories of the known, can be followed by stories of the unknown. The what ifs, the maybes. People inspire me, once they have found the answer, once the unknown has become known, we continue to pursue the mysterious and magical. Escaping into the pages of a book is like diving into someone else's life, or a different ideal completely.

I try to explore feelings and emotions, because that is when you are taken on a true adventure. The way I feel when catching a wave, or losing something or someone important, or the feeling of overwhelming pride when I hear The Last Post on that crisp April morning when the sun peeks over the horizon.

I write to explore. Explore stories, the known and unknown, and feelings.