Why?
Well, for a start I’m not a writer.
Sorry, let me back up a bit.
I was talking to my Dad today. Generally bemoaning the fact that western life is about consumerism and the general belief that he who has the most toys when he dies…wins. Wins what? I have no idea.
If I spend more than a few minutes trying to find a pair of jeans in a mall I become despondent, and go home empty handed. But I digress. Norman suggested I write a book. Publish. Become a millionaire.
Or just write a book.
Stupid idea.
Or is it? I DO have writing in my blood. Sort of. My mum writes. She’s a writer. A poet. A linguist. I’m biased, but do I remember Joan’s journal from when we all drove up to the Yukon and up to the Arctic Circle. We convinced her to read what she had written each night in the tent. I was surprised that her account of the trip seemed more real than the trip itself. Her recollection of the trip was somehow crisper and more colourful than I remembered even a few hours later.
So do I write? Can I write? Should I write?
