I write because I can’t stop myself.
I ‘began’ writing three times. Once at the age of thirteen in an old hardback notebook of my grandmother’s. The second time I was nineteen and wrote two-thirds of a play I had no idea what to do with. The third time was at twenty-four when I decided categorically I didn’t want to live alongside everyone else. I wanted to hide from a life that hurt too much.
Sixteen years later I’m about to have my first short story published. Life still visits me daily and I battle her and also embrace her. And – as I have done since I was thirteen, and probably younger – I write to feel the pen in my hand, the paper beneath my wrist as I move it across the page. And in the years between I have slowly learned what to do with the words I’m compelled to put on paper because I can’t stop moving my hand.