Alone, I am nothing. I am made up of little pieces of the world. Bits of many people and places.
When I was very little I lived in Burma and there was a small bridge not far from my house where I used to go play. The whole world lived under that bridge and I controlled it. I observed and reigned. I never dared step in to that world, though. It was too dangerous. I stayed on the outside with my nanny protecting me.
Writing a book is a gargantuan task. It is one of the scariest things in the world. Not only is there the fear of failure – “even if I do finish it, will anybody want to read it?â€â€¦. but, there is also the fear of losing a part of yourself. Every writer must give a piece of themselves, a part of their soul.
Will it be enough? Is it noteworthy? Why is it necessary? Somebody I know once told me it is a form of immortality. All humans strive for immortality and writing is the way to achieve it. Maybe. But is that why we do it?  Really?