I have often wondered why I write. Writing is a physical need that comes from deep within me, and I do not do it for fame or money. I would love for many people to read my novels.
I am on my tenth novel, and I started quietly, learning step by step. I believe I have reached a good level, but reaching an audience is a difficult, sometimes almost impossible task, especially if you are an unknown debut author.
More than once, I have thought about quitting, but then the need knocks loudly, and my fingers start typing on the keyboard. The magic begins at the most unexpected moments and sometimes lasts for a long time.
When the need becomes pressing, everything else becomes secondary. Whether it’s day or night, there’s no room for anything else. This physical pleasure becomes intense to the point of becoming like a drug from which you cannot detach.
I am in good company. Along with my multiple replicas of myself, there are many other people who are on the same path, putting words on paper.
We are pragmatic, in search of tangibility, where many wonderful and incredible people coexist, just like in life.
We write to live.
