Relying on the desire to write as the foundation to accomplish anything is in my case perhaps a little naive. Desire is a fickle and unpredictable thing, but it can also be a rush like no other. The desire to do some things can completely obliterate the will to do others.
In one way, I am lucky. Even when I fall off the writing-wagon it doesn’t take too long before I catch a glimpse of whatever it is that made me see stories in the first place. I haven’t got the foggiest as to what it actually is, but sooner or later the visions return to me. It is a good thing that my feet are not afraid of walking. I suspect I’ll be doing a lot of it until I catch up with that wagon.
Desire was never the reason I started, nor was it why I stuck with it. It isn’t the reason I continue either. So then, why do I write? Most likely, because I must. Like I said, sooner or later I start seeing stories again. How else would I get them out of my heart and through my head?