A writer’s mind is like a vast cavern. It is unimaginably huge, with winding paths and tunnels flowing through it like a network of veins. Veins of imagination, for in these tunnels lie the plots of undeveloped stories and poems, potential for greatness. And on the ceiling hang stalactites, ideas waiting to crash home. In the walls of stone there is the constant knowledge of what we were born to do. We may face uncertainties along the way; we may take detours and lead ourselves down the wrong roads. But we know, deep inside those walls of stone, what we were born to do. We were born to write.