Pencils and notebooks have always fascinated me. I wanted them. Still do. Yet they were mostly empty, except for a snippet here and there. Or a sketch. Then in 1997, something happened to open my mind to the words inside. Words that needed to get out. Words still trying to escape. ALL OF THEM.

I write to put on paper what I want out of my head, write on the margins of books, scorecards, magazines, napkins. Words are dynamic & fluid, they move. I like that because I like | need change and movement, even in stillness and silence, which at times ground me. I type too, but often write on paper, as it draws out thoughts which at times can be unstoppable so that I can barely keep up. Think I mentioned that already. 

Never imagined that I would write a novel, nor did I set out to do so, even though I’ve had a love affair with paper since young, writing and sketching, then hiding or tossing most of it … until something I wrote and threw out and then, by chance, grabbed back.