There was something about being passionate in the prompts for this week. If only I could find where I put that file. Anyway, my memory will serve me as best it can for now. Why am I passionate about writing?

I suppose it's always been in me, this desire to write, to express myself in this way. My mum taught me to read before I even started school. I recall the smiles on the faces of my teachers. As a little kid I felt sure they simply loved me, but now as an adult with children of my own, I understand that smile as one of pure joy. I had discovered the joy of reading. And it meant one less kid for the teacher to struggle with and drag through the process. Mum didn't set out to teach me to read before I even started school. She just loved stories and books herself. She'd sit us down each evening and read us a tale. I still remember how it felt all cosy in bed while her voice narrated the tales, the way she'd leave us hanging at the end of a chapter. No matter how much we begged she wouldn't read any more. Not until the next night. There were times I felt sure I'd never fall asleep for sheer suspense.

Of course I did fall asleep and dream wild scenes and strange imaginings under the safety of my bed covers. I recall staying up late to read until mum insisted I switch off the light. I continued this practice into my teen years. But that leads me back to the passion I've always had for words, writing, reading. It's just always been there. We played word games and toyed with the whole concept of what things meant. In primary school I won awards for my stories. The teachers would beam at me with that knowing smile and I felt the warmth of their happiness. But no one ever suggested I become a writer.

Dad encouraged my love of drawing clothing designs and mum tried to channel me into the traditional fields of typing, shorthand and business studies. My high school years were a mess of tumultuous emotions and drug use that ended with me getting kicked out before I finished my senior year. I'm not proud of that. I'm also not proud that I never learnt to accept the part of myself that was smart, clever, brainy, or whatever you want to call it. None of the other kids were as bright as me. I abused this part of myself, though, and the time I spent using drugs did damage, too. I just wanted to fit in. Being brilliant and finding the work easy made me stand out. There were other events that shaped this time of my life, too, but I prefer not to go there right now.

Needless to say I missed any opportunity of going to uni. Instead I ended up living with some guy out in the sticks and riding around on the back of his motorbike whenever I could. I was unemployed and didn't care about anything much at all. But it was there, in those moments of boredom, that I rediscovered the joy of writing.

I recall sitting in that picturesque setting and pouring out my heart into this thick notebook I had from my final school year. I'd only used the book for the couple of weeks until I was dismissed. I found another use for the book. I wrote stories, plotted murders, described my setting and tried to find a way to end the aching loneliness I felt inside. But there were never the right words for that. Not then. When I finally left the guy and moved back to the coast life changed for me again. I was travelling, making plans to see Australia with my best friend. We realised our dream and drove off early one morning with promises of how long we'd be gone. But I never did return. On the other side of the country I met my Saviour and my husband and started a family. Those things kept me busy for a while, but it was the urge inside that drove me back to the page and to pick up my pen. Here I am now, still writing. Best leave it here, even though I'm not sure I actually answered the question.