I think there's something to be said of writers. Some of us have the delusional notion that writing somehow changes people. People in our lives may have taught us that writing is essential, that storytelling is essential, and the act of telling stories is innate to being human.

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I am guilty of this belief.

I believe in the spark of adventure, the spirit of Life which stories would encourage us to feel so strongly that our feet slip into a world beyond. I believe stories make connections between people, they make us love and learn: they're exciting. They give me hope.

But, I also believe in dragons. So, what do I know.

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I could lose myself to writing for days at a time, and I do often end up wondering when I missed breakfast, lunch, or dinner to add a few more words to a page.

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I believe stories do that to people. They engulf and entice us. Writing them, I feel entirely satisfied.

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If I were given a choice, and if it were easier on me, I'd write much more short fiction. However, it seems I am doomed to devote, most bitter-sweetly, hundreds of hours and pages to characters whose very real fabrics demand more weaving and embroidery on my part. They'll take no sore back or fingers for an excuse.​​​​​​​