Why I Write

I write because I must be heard. Not from some sense of hubris, but because I have spent years being silent. I write so that my voice — silenced for so long — may be heard over the din of my internal critic.

I write because there is nothing else for me. Storytelling has been a part of me for as long as I care to remember. What was there before films? Books. What permeates the entertainment of today? Story. I write because I need to tell you about these worlds in my head. It is not for money nor glory, not for sex or drugs, but to tell these stories.

I write because I have lived a thousand lives and all they have stories to share. Others have stories to tell and they are like mine, so I include theirs. The surrounded soldier or frontiersman, the abused youth…the heartbroken child crying himself to sleep… They have stories. I have stories. So I write.

Perhaps I write also because there is another side of me that doesn’t get seen. A desire to fight back against the oppressors, to do what my cowardice keeps me from doing. Violence is human and when humans are abused or oppressed, they seek violence; in one form or another, they seek to fight back. While I am weak, my characters are strong. It is a vicarious experience to explore the what-ifs of life. Even more so, to put characters into situations that I may have wanted to be a part of.

I write because I must.