When I was a very young child, I sometimes wasn't allowed to go outside. I don’t remember why any more,
maybe I didn't eat my breakfast or maybe there wasn't anyone to watch me. I remember with clarity
the terrible longing to go outside in the sunshine and see and do all the wonderful things waiting there. Then I would be given a pen and paper and dive into my internal world and draw and draw. All our books had my drawings on all empty pages, illustrating a world of my own made up stories and games. Where does this artistic fire in the belly come from?