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.