Writing is waking up in the middle of the night with a sentence, a beginning, hanging from your fingers, the whole story still a mystery.
It’s dirty hands and sleepy eyes, characters that are almost friends, friends that become inspiration.
It’s finding stories everywhere, in the touch of a hand, in the far corner of a crowded room, in a bus that goes nowhere.
It’s playing with words as if they were chess pieces, black and white, finding a way to turn them into color.
Writing is not easy, It’s messy and exhausting.
But it’s also magic, a secret, a gift.