After my captor, turned stalker, died when he was in his sixties, I was free to have my writing made public. Yet it was my computer that initially listened to my untold stories without judgement or feeling uncomfortable and changing the subject. The written word is a friend I can no longer live without. The content of each of my books may at first seem unrelated. However, they are not. They are all of the same substance. They are all part of me. I live to write, and I write to live. Writing would be my choice, even if I had a choice. How lucky is that?