No one asks you, as a child, whether you want to be a writer. No one has to.

I am a writer because of my father at the campfire–a talent that nature and need gave him but culture denied him. I am a writer because of Ray Bradbury. A perceptive high school teacher. A blunt push from a lover. The faith of two men who knew more than I did about what I could do. I write because it is hardwired into me.

So why do we write? What is the substance of the calling?

We write because we see differently. Because the words ask us to. Because our eyes demand it. Because there’s a world out there that can come alive only under our hands.

We write to express ourselves. And our overindulgent hearts. And our ugly minds and our beautiful spirits. We write to populate our inner worlds. We write to chase alone-ness. To stay sane. To be a testimory to life.

We write because we have something unexpected to say. We write because, without writing, we have no voice. We write because pain and joy can sing; must sing.

We write because we want to. And because we don’t.

We write because we have no other choice.

We write, therefore we are.

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