As I child I wished I could connect something to my head and beam my imagination onto paper. Unfortunately (fortunately!), there have been no such easy inventions.
Writing is a hard task. How many times have I sat there quivering in front of that imposing, white screen? How many times have I tried to sit down with a pen, trembling, shaking with both excitement and fear. But truly the question should be this: how many times have I written a beginning and then decided it was terrible, unworthy, and then deleted it?
Looking at a screen of words is always unsatisfactory. From a photographic perspective, small, semi-uniform shapes surrounded by empty space. Still a blank look. What of that fast, vivid imagination? The moving images, the dripping colour? Writers have only black ink and white paper.
I realise I must accept that I cannot ever fully transfer the precise and exact form of my novels in my mind to reality, and I must accept that in order to allow my stories to transcend that narrow space of my mind, to journey into bookshops, discussion forums and the minds of others.