Why do you write? Is it because you have stories struggling to the surface of your churning consciousness? Is it that you have memories you’d like to purge? Or is it that you believe, like I do, that art can be a tremendous force for good in the world?
We see so many horrors every day. The murders and cruelty. The bullying. The disdain for those who are different from ourselves leading to divisiveness. Sometimes the news of the world can be overwhelming. I, for one, need to combat these sad aspects of the human experience with joyful expression.
So I write.
Every day I go to a place in my mind and pretend to be a child of eleven, or thirteen, or seventeen. And I try to remember what I was dealing with at that time. What did I want? Which dreams excited my growing psyche? What confused me and made me wish there were mentors guiding my decisions.
Then I become that child and set off on an adventure, hoping to empower my readers. Trying to send a message that each one is absolutely unique with talents they will continually discover. Like I do as my fingers dance over the keys.
That’s why I write.
How about you?