How natural is "the writer's life"?
I spend hours, days, weeks living in my own dream world, drifting around Tesco's or walking the dog muttering dialogue to myself like some inebriate down the precinct. I agonize over plot points, tuning out my spouse's conversation at mealtimes, until I come round and realise I haven't heard anything anyone's said to me in the last twenty minutes. This morning I woke in the small hours and lay awake playing scenes in my head. It makes for an odd existence, all this story weaving. I'm not at all sure it's quite sane behaviour.
But I love it. And ultimately that is why I do it. Oh, I know, the lure of the name on the bookjacket is seductive, but if I never make it into print I'll still write stories because it's a way of creating my own world. It's the ultimate power trip. I am God in my own little make-believe Kingdom. Nothing can happen unless I say so.
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