I am a writer. Mine is a solitary pursuit, lonely, internally-focused, obsessed and obsessive. Writers tend to be opinionated. Why not? No-one argues with us when we’re alone. Every word committed to the page feels like part of a sermon for an invisible congregation. Like most writers I’d like to make an impression and a difference and I hope my words will outlive me and continue resonating through the ages. I still read Wuthering Heights with a sense of awe. Emily’s spirit sparkles off the page as wickedly and winsomely as it must have done when she embodied it. A good writer puts her heart into her story, a great writer offers us her soul. It’s no Faustian deal, the exchange is immortality not temporary power. Great art is always invested and infected with soul and the wild unfettered imagination that bridges heaven and earth. It’s why we write. I will keep writing until I feel I have nothing original or inspired left to say. I think writers have a responsibility to offer their readers risky ideas and uncharted journeys. I am not interested in reading the warmed-up remains of yesterday’s stories or worse, the plagiarized copies of genius with an altered word here and there to hide the theft. I want something new and risky. I want soul-on-canvas and soul-on-page and brave writers sharing new ideas couched in startling imagery. If not then maybe try something else. There are plenty of jobs out there that don’t require imagination.