What are the motivations for writing?
Anger? Love? Necessity?

To experience events buried deep in your own subconscious?

Christ, dear Christ. I feel sure boredom must be one of the motivations. Dull, grey Scottish days. Granite walls and granite seas. Anaemic complexions. Football spoken on the bus, football in the pub, in the news. Drunks kicking bus shelters on their way home after a football game. Fans singing sectarian songs, looking for a take-away and thinking, like some spineless, dribbling disciple that they are expressing their opinion.

Cold, dull Scottish days. Literature must thrive in such dark, wet, uninspiring environments. Lift a discarded concrete slab, prise it up from the damp, musty soil. Rip it apart from the sprouting weeds and find a dense, teeming evolution of life underneath. Wood lice, centipedes, worms, slugs, cotton-bud balls of eggs or larvae. A feast of decay and rebirth.

Frothing, fermenting stories.

Let the slab fall back in place. With any luck it might crush a few of the critters.