When I began to write some million years ago I did not realize that I was being pulled into a dimension different from the one where I lived most of my everyday life. In this new world I found evolution.
At first it was a childish world that looked very much like my own, but then it became more complex as I learned how to read the landscape of my own writing. It was not just a romance or a mystery. There were questions growing there like exotic plants. I could not evict them from my gardens, but had to learn to nurture them and see which were toxic and which propelled their perfumes into hours of pleasure.
I found dragons friendly and unfriendly. I found fears in the owls that winged away through the wisdom of time. And sometimes I found myself in that dark wood where Dante was made to stand in a crossroads of his life.
Writing is both blessing and curse.