It seems to me that writing is a great way to release energy -though, unfortunately, not to burn it, or I would find it easy to become glamorously skinny-. When life with all its small tragedies gets to me, as it happens now and then, I enjoy writing my troubles away: the pointless marital fights, the people who no longer like me, the work struggles, the rain.
In writing I’m in charge of the world. The heavens and the earth obey me; it would never dare rain without my permission. In writing I can analyse other people’s motivations, as well as my own, and set the universe right, as it should be. I love writing because it is all these things and more: When good things come, I can keep them forever, build a shrine for them to live in, untouched by time. When bad things come, they can be put away. I don’t have to carry them in my pockets forever, to weigh down on my life.