Someone recently asked me, “Why do you write?”
I thought about it for a while but couldn’t come up with anything specific.
I never needed a reason before. Writing has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. I once got into trouble when I was in the second grade for writing a poem instead of doing what the teacher had assigned. My punishment: finish the poem and read it to the class. It went like this:
“I woke up this morning and felt something
in the air. I couldn’t name it, but it was there.
I ran to my window and looked around
There it was! Snow on the ground!”
My classmates cheered. The teacher smirked and said, “Please take your seat, Peggy. Now class, open your Health books to page....”
I stay up most nights until four or five a.m. writing. I write wherever I am – in a car, on a bus, on a plane, in a restaurant – if not literally, then in my mind.
It’s what I do.
It’s my life.