The world, since its conception, has loved stories. And writers love to breathe life into words that make these stories – whether fiction or non-fiction. This literary magic common to all cultures of the world is often about war and its heroes, the most sadistic of men and their deeds, love and hate, and the popular kids. I am writer in love with my craft. And if writing was how I had to earn a living and change the world, I’d leave the aforementioned list of subjects to the other scribes and tell the untold stories – the ones the world doesn’t want to hear but needs to. The tales of orphans, widows, widowers and dead stripped by heroes; the vengeful killers, deranged, unfocused, living dead who are a backlash of unnecessary cruelty and ignorant hate; the wretched stories of the woman and man who and cannot look their reflections in eye because they have been told over and again how worthless and useless they are by the popular kids. I’ll tell the world the life story of the unknown girl who jumped of that building and that random boy who slit his wrists because they weren’t thin enough, rich enough, smart enough or beautiful enough for society. And perhaps after the stories of these forgotten have been read, one bully will refrain from injury, the government will forgo a war, that girl will realise she is beautiful regardless of flaws and a suicidal boy will find his life is priceless.