I find that most of my inspiration doesn't come from my happy times. Usually, my most driving stories are when I feel something I need to get out.

The agony and pain. The hurt and anguish. Despair. Fear. Misery.

These are the times when I feel compelled. I feel the spur of communication—it digs into my sides and propels me forward. I don't know what I'd do without the need to write. It helps me grasp my emotions and sort them, gives me lives and happiness I could never experience otherwise.

My characters are my children. I watch them struggle and fall, wanting so much for them to succeed. But I know my place. I can only watch from a distance as they are forced into more uncomfortable situations. They feel the feelings I feel. They know me utterly. No one can replace them…at least, no one I know yet.

As their parent, I understand that they need to work things out on their own. I know they have to find their own hope and courage. But I can still cry as they cry, and rejoice when they rejoice.

I am in command. I am in control. They can go any way I want them to go. But I try not to force it. In helping them find a solution, I find a solution, and though it may not resolve the problem, it helps me to find strength. It makes me appreciate the good it's doing me. I can see the progress I make. I'm being transformed. Being made beautiful.

Other times, inspiration comes from the feelings of joy that sweep over me—the joy to be alive, to have family and friends…a home.

That is when I feel the need to express my joy, my love of life, or I will burst, and there will be nothing left of me but a few old stories they never saw.

One of these days, I won't be able to get to the keyboard or paper fast enough. I will explode, and all that will be left is a few old stories.

I just hope the stories are worth it.