I’ve always written. True stories. Stories that come from travel. I can’t write about what I don’t know so everything I have ever written has been a recount of something ridiculous that has happened to me from falling down a squat toilet in Nepal to commandeering a horse from local Mexicans for a tequila mission. For as long as I have travelled I have found myself writing. At first I didn’t realise I was writing because it was in the form of fold up letters and faxes, and then later email essays sent to a list of friends and family from internet cafes full of speed typing backpackers. Somehow telling the stories of my adventures validated the experience. Sharing them was just another way I could feel the moments play out again. I found myself with the desire to make people laugh and word had that power. Even in my diary I felt the need to play with words, add humour, be clever. I wasn’t sure why being funny was so important when I was going to be the only person to read these diaries. But what I was sure of was that I felt compelled to write. I have never considered the why behind writing before I just have. I think writing for me is reflex more than decision and that without it I would lose half my voice.

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