Miss Dee asks the question "Why do you write?" and I must agree with her in that, because I have to is the most bloody pretenious piece of crap answer on the planet. Would all those who sprouted that answer please drop your pants immediately and allow me to spank you with a hardcover copy of Writing Down The Bones.
Why do I write? Coz it helps to make me appear busy at work on a quiet day. Frowning studiously at my screen, fingers hailing down on the keyboard, a contemplative pause with finger on chin and the occassional "hmmm hmmm"… it's sheer genius really.
Other good ways of looking busy: scatter random pieces of paper around your desk, stand up now and then, put your hands in your hair, kick your filing cabinet and say "aaaaaaaargh! stupid clients!" a few times. Concerned colleagues will say, "Oh you poor dear, go get a drink and some fresh air". That is when you naff off to the loos for a snooze (toilet roll makes for handy pillow) or dash to the shopping centre. Technique perfected while moonlighting as a public servant last year. Don't need to do that as much now as new job actually requires some work to be done!
Anyway. Writing. Being an over-sensitive passive-aggressive little individual who would rather bear a grudge for fifteen years than actually confront someone, writing is a lovely way of venting my stress. It's also good for cheap thrills. Every now and then you get into that writing groove and the words just pour out of you and they all sound good. That is when you turn to the nearest mirror and say, "Oh you saucy little writing minx you! You're soooo hot today that your Bic's gonna melt!".
Then of course the next day you're back to writing crap again! Mwahaha.
This is a scan of a story I wrote in November 1983, I'd just turned 6. I wrote a lot back then. And what an idealistic, loving little cherub I was! I haven't changed that much, although my spelling is a little better.