I was a writer through and through.
Everything I saw in the outside world; my experiences, good, but especially bad, went into my writing. They coloured it. Without external influences and my own internal interpretations of them, my writing wouldn’t have been half as good.
I needed to write like living things need to breathe. If I was sitting still for long periods of time I needed a pen and paper on my lap or at least within easy reach, at all times. I would have gone mad without my writing as an outlet.
I wondered how other people survived.