It’s an odd occupation, this writing business. You sit alone in a room and make up stuff, and if you’re lucky, you find that someone else likes it, has faith in it, and is willing to put it out in the world for you. If you are even luckier, you make a little money out of the process and find that it becomes a job – a career, even.
I’ve been writing full-time for twenty-five years now, a figure that has me scratching my head and wondering where in the hell the time went. I look up above my desk, where there is a shelf upon which sits a copy of each of my books, and as I look at the titles on the spines I think not of the characters and worlds therein, but of the places I was at when I wrote them. They are waypoints in my life, and within their pages are ideas which flared up at certain times like a match struck in the dark, only to die out in the darkness again when their time was past and a new idea was being lifted out of the box. Continue reading