It occurred as I sat, slaving over a hot word processor, and going through the process of putting one of my characters to a gruesome and untimely end. ‘It’ was the realization that as my character went through sundry trials and agonies, and ultimately met an ignominious end, the whole tawdry tale of suffering and pain was accompanied by the sounds of hauntingly beautiful music. Perhaps my soul had been touched by the poignancy of my character’s fate. Perhaps the unfathomable biology of the human intestine was at work, but the dissonance between what I was putting on the page, and what my ears were hearing distracted me, and I was taken by the thought that writing can often be a surreal experience.

Indeed, writing itself seems a strange thing to do when I think about it logically. Writers can work long hours, often for little material reward, to produce work that may be read by only a handful of people. Yet we choose this way of spending our time over others. Why have I just started to write? I’m genuinely not sure, other than the process of creating something (hopefully) unique is fascinating, varied, and allows for the consumption of chocolate at the same time. When I have a more complete answer I may write about it, but until then (assuming anyone is reading this post) does anyone in Webland have an answer? Why do you write, even when given the option to do other things instead? What are your strangest experiences of the writing, or publishing process? I’d be interested to know.

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