I want stories. I want them to fill my head. I want words pouring out of my mind, fluid from my fingertips and across the keyboard onto the screen. I don’t ever want the words to stop.
Someone recently asked me what I would do if the stories stopped. What if I became burnt out? Writing a lot is dangerous, they said. It could dry up the well and I’d run out of stories. Then what? What would I do?
This thought has never worried me.
Writing is funny. The more you do it, the more ideas you have. It doesn’t make sense, but I suppose that’s the magic of it.