I write because I’m curious. A story bubbles up in my head and I absolutely have to know the ending. As I write 95% by the seat of my pants and 5% by plotting, even I don’t know what will happen next; every writing day is an adventure.
It’s like living with a slowly evolving motion picture inside my head.
It’s fascinating writing fantasy, as I can toss in anything I like. The desire to keep adding the bizarre and continue stirring took root on the school run. Rolling along, I’d be telling a tale about a girl who had created tartan ink and was using the spell on an aardvark, when a small voice from the back would ask, ‘And what about the fluffy pink dragon?’ ‘Of course, I was just coming to that.’ ‘And the flying yeti with three legs, who loves surfing and lives with his guitar playing, Olympic snowballer godmother?’ ‘What a coincidence. Yarold was about to enter, stage left.’
Fantasy is frustrating, caffeine-overload inducing, but brilliant and undoubtedly keeps the brain in gear.