Why I Write

I never choose to write. My hand is drawn to a pen, and the pen to paper, like opposite poles on a magnet. When the pen hits the paper, the effect is like ink on a paper towel. The ink is drawn out, sometimes in the form of coherent thoughts, often not.

It's probably good that I also have an impossible to fight need to edit as well, because I can then turn that mess into English.

I see editing as being like sculpting. Trim a little here, a little there, and you are left with the beauty of the artist's original vision. I'm not so sure other people see editing in quite the same light.

When I'm not writing on paper, I'm writing in my head. I dream about my characters. While I sleep, I write scenes for them, create their lives beyond my story.

I worry that one day I'll wake my husband up by talking in my sleep to one of the male characters in my work-in-progress. This is likely why none of my characters are named after people I know.

I write because it's who I am. It's who I've always been. If somehow I managed to stop, I'd turn into one of the characters in my stories. And then I'd really have problems.