I’ve always had the urge to write, at least as long as I can remember. I used to have a spiral-bound notebook, covered with magazine pictures of cats, that I would take around with me on the weekends. In particular, I remember riding my bicycle along the side of our house, down to the street and around, all with this notebook in the basket on the front. Every time an idea struck me – which was pretty often – I’d put on the brakes, lean forward and pull the notebook out, and write the idea in my notebook.

Back in 2001, when I was involved with some early writing websites, I wrote a piece about why I write. It’s a bit gooey and sentimental in parts, but the highlights are still absolutely true today:

Why do I write? I write because it’s better than not writing. Simple, really, but perhaps it deserves some further explanation.

So, try to imagine not writing. No creative outlet (unless you’re one of those most irritating people who have multiple talents and can paint or dance or sing if they choose not to write). No true freedom of expression, where you really can say what you want. No chance to put all those different words together in any way you choose, to create the most incredible multitude of emotions, understandings and debates.

Writing is being alive. In fact for me, it’s incredibly hard to really explain why I write because it is something I have always done and always wanted to do. It was not a conscious decision like “I want to play the clarinet” (something I tried but didn’t have as much success with as writing). Instead, it is much more like, “Breathing is a sensible thing to do to stay alive.” I guess I’m saying, writing is breathing.