There have often been times when people have asked me why I am involved in writing or more so why I do it. When I was first exposed to what being a writer was and meant I felt an immediate connection that felt naturally right, a connection that would endure 20 years, on and off, as a practicing graffiti writer. My immediate answer to that question is ‘a passion to create’. After all it was a way to express myself, I was good at it and saw improvement every time I did it. Was this the real reason though? If so why paint on walls and trains and not canvass like all other artists? I guess being fourteen at the time and the choice of adventure proved much more attractive than sitting in art class painting landscapes. I did want to to escape my parents like every other kid and explore life for myself. I did want to be somebody, who doesnt, especially at that age? But was I really an artist? I didnt really care about being one and more so loved the challenge of painting my name where I wasnt supposed to. The fact others were doin the same thing and an audience was watching only challenged my confidence. There was also the mystery of something ‘new’, a new subculture. What could be more rewarding than being a part of something never seen before? What ever the reasons were for starting as soon as there was a taste there was no looking back. I associated with like minded kids whose purpose and energy goes way beyond any superficial existence. The scene was growing, more tags and pieces were appearing, stories of infamous writers and crews were passed down and I got caught up in the wave. Legal or illegal became insignificant, risk only fueled adrenalin and notoriety, and with persistence came my development and eventually respect for my own achievements within the scene of budding writers. I was somebody.