I tried to read the novel by Alice Walker once, a long time ago. I thought it looked promising and engrossing, but as I was as awkward with novels then as I am now (novels are so long, you know), I gave up—very reluctantly—after a dozen pages. The reason I began reading it was because it was on the reading list of the History of American Literature module, obligatory for all students in the English Department.
When I was studying in Nottingham, I came across some books by and about Alice Walker in a local library just outside Wollaton Park. I was basically in the middle of an afternoon walk and should have continued walking, but instead, with my sporty outfit and trainers on, I sat down on a wooden stool next to one of the bookshelves, and read away for the next few hours. I checked out one of the books several times afterwards, a collection of Alice Walker's short stories. They were not all perfect, but the energy flowing through them was, and it is that sort of energy that inspires me and calls on me to create.
Today, that same energy presents itself to me again, throbbing with life's pulses, gushing forth from life's veins. And now as then, amidst the cool summer breezes blowing through the windows into my Yokohama flat as amidst the vibrations of sun and lake and lawn dancing invisibly around that stool in Wollaton Library, it calls on me to write.