When I started writing stories, my dad came to me.

I remember it clearly. We were in our living room. He sat on the leather armchair in the corner. I sat on one of his legs. My notebook was open on his other.

“Why did you do it?” he asked me. I think he was shocked. I was confused.

It was a story about talking animals, so hen he basked me, “Is it because you love animals?”

I do love animals, and I knew in that children’s special way that my dad needed an answer, so I nodded, even if that wasn’t the answer.

I was nine, and that was a tough one.

Even today, I’m not sure I can answer that question.

All I know is that during the few periods I was unable to write, I was a wreck.

So I write.

It makes me feel good.