Someone once asked me why I write
I write because I am fascinated by the English language. I love the way March 4th is the only date that is also a sentence. I am enthralled by how many strange and luminescent galaxies can exist inside of one skull, and how blessed we are that those authors choose to share those galaxies with us in the confines of a few hundred pages. I am comforted by the way a tree can look at a book and know that there is life after death. I think it’s funny that we create words that we are not allowed to use, and I reject those rules on principle. I love how sometimes the words we specifically don’t write can be just as poignant as the words we do.
I know that language is a flawed system and that there are more prestigious job opportunities for lawyers and doctors, but I am a writer because we need writers. We, as human beings, are just poems with feet. Each of us is a story that has never been told and it is our living-breathing right to tell our story – to be that poem.
I write because there is no word in the English language to describe how easy it is to fall in love with sadness, if only because it will never leave you. I write because there are an infinite more things you can do with words than anything else that exists. I write because I believe that the right sentence spoken or read at the right time can change lives. I write because I have to. I write because I can be stripped of my possessions, my hope, my name, my dignity, my courage – even my life, but no one can keep me from words.
We are a speck of dust on a freckle of the universe, living on borrowed time and chemical reactions - and I cannot afford to waste my life not writing.