Unless you write yourself, you can’t know how wonderful it is; I always used to bemoan the fact that I couldn’t draw, but now I’m overjoyed that at least I can write. And if I don’t have the talent to write books or newspaper articles, I can always write for myself. ANN FRANK, A Diary of a Young Girl. And that was what I did, sitting at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, Oxford Dictionary of Current English and a pencil sharpener beside me. It was daunting at the beginning, putting pencil to paper, and I could not remember the number of times stared blankly at the refrigerator facing me in the kitchen, scouring my mind to recollect memories of past events. Somehow, the encouraging words from the books had read to prepare me for this journey seemed to lubricate the long stagnant gears of my mind and I just do it the way I wanted it to be done.
