It’s not always easy to explain this occupation of mine.
When people ask about it, I’m tempted to pull out the pat answers, the ones all writers like to give, like “I seem to be blessed with a rich fantasy life” or “Fiction? I thought those voices in my head were real…”

While there is some truth in the obvious answers, (they don’t call them clichés for nothing, folks) I’m not sure they capture the depth and the scope of this passion. I suspect that many writers are far too busy crafting and analysing the motivation behind their characters’ actions to spend much time studying what drives their own.

So, why do we write fiction? Because, if I am truly honest, this is more than just a pastime or a pleasure, it’s an obsession and an undeniable passion. I write because NOT writing is not an option. I write because the characters in my head are real, and their stories must be told. I write because on those long cold nights growing up in Saskatchewan in a family for whom the word ‘dysfunctional’ is a kindness, I read -- and read -- and read. I write because, to me, the world inside the covers of a book possesses a sense of order and justice, even when it is wild and unruly and immoral, and even when the good guys lose, the bad guys get away with it, and the girl ignores the nice guy and ends up with the jerk.

In fiction we are lured by the promise of adventure, conflict and eventual resolution. In particular, as writers of fiction, we can indulge in all of these things and explore aspects of this quasi-reality that we have built without having to be concerned about judgement or consequence. Mystery, travel, sexual freedom and, yes, even murder -- all things are possible in the world of fiction.

I write because there are things about life that I have observed, things I am driven to express based on my own experiences. For as long as I can remember, it has been my aspiration to write.

I do it not because I can, but because I must.