I wrote my first story at the age ofeight, pounding furiously at my dad's old computer. My proud product was a30-page story about a horse named Lightning who won the Kentucky Derby. It wasriddled with clichés and copied phrases from books I was reading, but itdidn't matter. I was hooked. I have been writing ever since, evolving fromwriting about horses to science fiction and beyond. I believe that in all of usthere is the desire to ex-press ourselves, and the ability to do so.

Ifelt like Monet, crafting delicate harmonious blends of color and beauty. I wasShakespeare, telling the ancient tales of human nature, trying to unravel themysteries of love, hate, war and peace. Since then, no other passion or pursuithas existed for me. My parents at first wanted me to write less and do"normal things" more, but they soon realized that takingwriting away from me would be like taking away Monet's easel.

Why write?People often ask me this. What is the appeal of putting words on paper, be it forpoetry, fiction or nonfiction? They see me hunched over a notebook, sparks flyingas my pen scratches away. My hands are perpetually coated with ink as, being alefty, I smudge my hand across everything I write. They don't understand. Theythink I am coming up with these ideas myself, instead of being driven by anotherperson inside of me.

When I write, I feel as though I am reaching deepdown into an empty well to see the world on the other side. There is unimaginablebeauty there, with characters spouting poetic phrases as they leap to save theirworld from destruction. It is always that magical hour of twilight between nightand day, and winter never comes. All I can do is try to describe it with thepitiful armory of words I have at my command.

They wonder why I write, butfor me, that question does not exist. My question is, what could be better? Whatin this world is more exhilarating than sitting with hands poised over akeyboard, facing the empty page and wondering what on earth the character willsay next?

Words flow out of me like music. Of course, most of the time Itrash the fruit of weeks of labor in an instant; to do that beautiful world in mymind justice, my writing must be perfect. I can never hold those words in check.They are too much a part of me. So I live day to day, notebook always ready,waiting for that next moment when I will be swept down through that well to theworld of dreams on the other side. Who knows when it will happen next? All I cando is prepare myself for when the sweet heady wine of words comes again.