I remember being eight years old and boring the ever-loving hell out of my parents by reading aloud my ongoing revisions on a short story. One of them begged me to wait until the final version before reading to them again.
I have written for as long as I can remember. I was always off-the-wall and out of synch with the rest of the world. I wrote in a Doctor Who universe decades before I watched a single program. I liked fantasy, mystical and the unexplained. My art work rarely used the colour wheel appropriately. The worlds of my imagination made utter sense to me.
I am continually amazed that my family is impressed/shocked/amazed that I'm writing. Except for the two years when I believed someone who said my writing was dull, I have written every day of my life. Every. single. day. Not because I'm dedicated or disciplined but because there are stories in my head and the only chance I have for rest is to write them down.While I do care that others are entertained, my primary focus has been to satisfy my own curiosity. I am consumed by it.
Why haven't we cured cancer when there are so many cures for lab rats? Why are some cultures shocked by certain behaviours but not others? What is society? Why do we tell stories? Why do we believe in religion, deity and science? How do emotions works? Why are some people wired one way but not another? Which wiring is right? Why did that lady have tribal art all over her face? Who was the soldier waiting for? If love is the answer, why does hate often win? Are the animals laughing at us?
There is a reason I consider my personal symbol a question mark. Answers lead to more questions but tell them to me well and I will be satisfied. That is a very good thing.