I have written since I was a small child, even before I could manage the real reading and writing of actual words. So many days, I sat at my little red and white table and chair to loop circles on scraps of paper as I spun the stories in my head. When each story was done, with Scotch tape I bound its pages together to make a book. Story after story, day after day, and I didn’t know any more about the process than that I was compelled to do what I was doing. All these writing years later, I understand why I “wrote” then, as I understand to this day why I still must write: If I don’t, life is not worth living.