My first memory as a child was not of toys, or my mum, or some birthday party. It was me sitting at a worn kitchen table in a ramshackle house trailer with a pencil squished between fingers. I was staring at the back of my mothers head, I looked down to my own scribbles, "What's the difference between knot and not?" I was confounded about how we could tell the difference of words which sounded identical; this spurned an explanation by mother about the horrors of silent letters and began my life long obsession with the written word.I am a writer. It's a fairly simple claim, its a claim made by many here, but I am the writer who writes on a bar napkin alliterations, or short paragraphs of sudden stories that pop into my head. We, a group of fellow writers I commune with on a daily basis, call it The Muse; words, writings, go through the head at such intensity that I have to stop and write it out. The act of writing is my personal joy on the same level of a oenophile (wine connoisseur); I