Someone once asked me how I manage to write books despite all my busy schedules, and I gave them a

simple answer: for me writing was more of a personality than a hobby. Those who know me personally
know am not a very chatty individual. In my early twenties an uncle of mine once asked if I was asleep
while we all were under the moonlight conversing and making merry noises. I cleared my throat and said
No. They all laughed. Don't be fooled, am neither a quiet nor a shy person. I just was a lonely child raised
not to speak when elders are talking, to the point it got chronic. I usually compared my communications
skills to Batman's. The part where he does all his reasoning, calculations, assessments, and logic in his
head when you could hear the voice over actor speaking through mild echos what Bruce Wayne was
thinking. Truth be told I've had so many of those in my head that I have little or nothing more to say
concerning whatever topics we were conversing on. But to understand this we need to go back a little
to my child hood. My mother was a victim of bigamy. A lady full of such goodness that when she died, I
was compelled to question myself if such love would be felt at my own demise. People who never knew
me would literally break down in tears when they heard I was her son and start introducing my mother
to me again and moments their encounter had changed their lives and perceptions. My mother was
literally a saint little more than Mother Teresa, and that is a fact, as are few other people too out there
though unrecognized and not renown. But as with every living human being that walked the face of the
earth she too had her demons. The tumultuous relationship she had with my father left her reeling with
such devastating damages that she never fully recovered from it emotionaly. And the poor standards we
were forced to live in after being forced into early retirement because she turned down the sexual
advances of her superiors, and being duped by fraudulent individuals of all her money. It left her
emotional, sick and a shell of her former self. Nothing remained again but the good she was created
with. And thus was much much "emotional"--not abusively as some would be quick to judge it as-- in
raising me. And all too rightly so because I wasn't much of a help either, I really would have turned out
Mansonic. I was quite precocious as a child. I knew more of Shakespeare, Danté, Milton and Lawrence
far more than any college graduate in my city. Immediately I learned to read I was all over the works of
Aristotle, Plato and Socrates, I knew Newton and Einstein's works before I even realized what Science
was. And it wasn't as if It was intentional, but being an only child to a single mother who relocated alot, I
never really had friends other than the books I always found lying around which got me addicted to
libraries. A child quoting Da vinci, humming Mozart, Bethoveen, Wolfgang, and Yanni, and telling stories
about the Renaissance, world empires, historic inventors and language etymology, linguistic syntax and
poetry combined with classical works orchestra composers to a captive audience being my mother, it
really wasn't all that beautiful as it sounds. I remember when the entire class and some others would sit
under me listening to intriguing stories and epic legends made up on the spot and as the story goes. So
needless to say, all that to an emotionally fragile woman, I really needed to be taught not to get out of
hand. Everything I said was either a thesis or Socratic questioning. One little remark such as the price of
tomatoes or the increase in transport fare had us neck deep into economics or drowning in debates
about philosophy and logic. So my mother never had a problem teaching me morals or having nothing
nice to say, her problems were teaching me not to make everyone else feel like they were in a
classroom.