Denne teksten skrev jeg en gang jeg tilhørte et amerikansk bloggernettverk. Siden har jeg ikke evnet å oversette den til norsk.

It was a coincidence that I, at the age of 18, became a journalist. Maybe I wrote before that, I kept a diary from I was 12, but I cannot remember ever dreaming about being a writer. My need to write is highly involuntary. If I could shake it, I would. It is a constant restlessness, a chronic bad conscience, a devilish presence hanging over me, asking critical questions about the way I spend my time, poking me, pinching me, pulling my hair for not writing enough and for not writing good enough. If writing is my plight, then why can’t that devil serve me a grand story to tell? Les videre