Writing is a compulsion. My days start like this: I wake up. I remember where I am. I think about how to write that down. It’s a simplified version, I admit, but it conveys the basics.

I’ve been working on My Bad Side for four years now, and I’m close to being done. The third draft is finished. One more read-through, and I’ll move on to another thing – maybe my giant sci-fi film! And that’s good. I did it. Yeah. But there’s a bad side (you’re damn right!!) to it as well. I’m in a freaking fog right now. My fingers hurt. I sleep too much. Nothing makes much sense. I’m a bit grumpy too. Ugh. That’s all I’ve got. I don’t like this. No! I need the constant fix of working through plot details, going back and forth, putting it in and taking it out and putting back in again, writing, writing, writing, deleting, deleting and writing again. Her arms are long. She chews her nails. She has a memory bracelet and small diamond ring. She is elegant but she’s done something she can’t understand. She abandoned her mother.When it’s done, it’s done. I have to leave it alone and be stuck with random images and ideas and wondering, “What if the polar caps really did melt? What then?”