What you really want is all too often hidden just behind what you think you want.

My stories are my children. Some are sweet infants that I coddle and care for. Others are old enough now, they need to damn well get a job!

Growing up, I used to climb out my window onto the roof and look up at the stars. There, in the quiet, I would write stories inside my head.

Days become weeks. Weeks become months. Month become years. And years become silence.