First assignment: Asking me why I write is like asking why does the tide turn every day; why do I inhale and exhale; why the sun burns to deep orange in the west each afternoon.

Silly blogger. How did it do that? I wasn't ready and it just stole my entry and published it.

I write because there's nothing else for me to do. I tried to ignore the urge, that low murmur that compells me and stirs in me. The ideas continued to bubble up to the surface. I simply could not ignore the sense of story and characters inside me. Their voices grew urgent. I simply had to give them an outlet.

Writing appeased that urge, for a while. I had to find readers for these characters or their stories would never be heard, just gather dust and dry up into nothing but ink on flaking pages.

I love to hear how the stories touch people, make them see things in a different light. I love to know the characters stories were shared, let loose on the world. I don't like that being a wife and mum means I have to squelch this urge to write so often. There's a constant battle going on for my time. At times I find that hard to deal with.