Sometimes I think I like writing so much because those hamsters in my brain sometimes spin out of control, and writing is the only way to slow them down and make them enunciate succinct thoughts. Other times I like to pretend that my crazy hamsters are actually sleek greyhounds who lope along with graceful steps, spinning my stories in a way that takes me away from my sometimes disappointing realities.

I can escape into a world of my own making. And if I screw up, I can fix it by rearranging some words. Real life is harder to fix, because the things I utter cannot be taken back. Only band-aided with more words and regret. And regret makes for a pretty crappy life story.