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Over forty months, ten stories poured out of me, not counting the short I tossed on this space a month or so ago. Of the ten stories, a little bit of me nests in each one.

When we create, of course our hard work goes into the product we produce. Stories are of our minds, rendered shareable from our finger interaction with a keyboard. Personal perspective is also in our stories, including our experiences and our view of the experiences, combined with our take on the world around us.

We may create a villain, but we’ll create and deal with the villain by sourcing something inside of us. If a character in our story hurts, a little bit of the hurt is from us. When a character is euphoric, I write from a place where I’ve felt this way.

Topics I’ve touched on include suppressing identity (closeting), outing oneself, abuse of many types including domestic violence and paedophilia (which I have not experienced, but can readily grasp the pain involved, and in looking back, know I dodged a pretty nasty bullet in my childhood), feminist activism, homophobia and transphobia, and the broken trust of cheating (another not experienced.)

Conflict and excitement means drama; we aren’t interested in seeing the ocean a sheet of blue unstirred, we wish to see the blue morph into darker and lighter swaths of curled colour with pointed tips frosted white, the ominous energy of the sea unshackled and bestirred. Significant moments of drama have lasting impact on us, creating the exclamation points on our life’s timeline, those places with positive significance, including marriage and birth of our children.

I cannot write from any other place. Drama compels me to write out what it twists up inside of me, creating this audacious need to put words before others like dinner in a five star restaurant, believing they will find it palatable.

There is no effort on my part to cover the residue of my scratched mental itches. In my words, people see me trying to make sense of it all. It is an endeavour with no end.