An engineer by training, a copywriter by coincidence and a raving lunatic by choice, one fine day I decided to roll up my sleeves and dive headfirst into the cut-throat, brutish world that is writing.

Broaden my horizons.  Explore new realms of imagination. Dodge work. You know, the usual reasons. 

Before I knew it, my inner writer had been unleashed and woe be to my inner critic and inner adult, who both went running to their respective inner mommies for shelter from the hurricane of words that thundered down from on high like a stampede of irate elephants trampling on a bunch of overzealous greenpeace activists.

However, I soon learned that you can't hammer a few words together and expect good writing to result; it has to be crafted, created and worked on.

This was about the same time I discovered that I took undue pleasure in gleefully butchering, twisting, slicing, dicing and icing words, tossing them into a blender, microwaving the resulting mixture on 'high' and serving them with your choice of tea, coffee, or weed.

But writing to me is more than simple kitchen alchemy; it’s more about stretching the mind, weaving together emotions, feelings, ideas and expressions into more than just words; a canvas limited only by your imagination. That kind of freedom is what makes writing so magical.

Definitely my kind of playground.