Well, so why am I writing? That is a very good question. For one, I can't claim that I had a calling, because that would be an untruth not worth telling. However, when I did get started it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. It just felt right, and the words almost seemed to present themselves as I wrote.

I didn't seem to have to think much about it, which came as a great revelation to me. That was the first big surprise. The next one was that I was writing in English which appeared to be second nature to me.

How could that be, when English is not my first language? Well, I shrug my shoulders, and put it down to that not only did I learn English from an early age, but I had also used the language in all my working life. Moreover, I moved to Britain in my early forties, and ended up marrying my second husband who is Scottish. Although we live in Spain, my daily language is English, mainly with my husband. The rest of the time I speak Spanish.

So why don't I write in Spanish you may ask. Well, the answer is the same, as to why I don't write in Danish, the language I was brought up with. Don't take me wrong though. I do struggle with the English language, and had it not been for all the support I am getting I wouldn't be where I am today.

However, back to the question. Why do I write? Well, I think it is an extension to all the books I've read ever since I was capable of reading.

I remember my early school days, when I was caught out reading a book hidden under my desk laying on my lap. If the topic or the teacher bored me, I would read instead and in secret. But more often than not I was found out, and the poor teacher was at times lost for words when he or she caught me reading a classic work. How could they scold me for that? It was a dilemma.

Then came all the years of higher education, studying for a degree, getting a job I loved, getting married and raising a family. And I still read. As voraciously as ever, whenever I could find the time, and gradually the desire to put my words on paper came to the fore.

Why not, I thought, when everybody else seems to be capable of doing so. I mulled it over for a wee while, and came to the conclusion that I would give it a try.

So, here I am writing, and it appears that I have a lot to tell. My brain is overflowing, with projects and ideas. Some of it has found an outlet, and a lot is stored somewhere deep in my head.

Where I want to go with it, I still don't know. Deep down though, I do wish that I could publish. That someone might want to read what I have to say. Who knows?

What I do know is that I still read a lot, and that I will always do, but I am maybe turning into a writer after all. I would like to believe so, and I hope that you the reader may also think that.