Why I Write

I don't remember the last time I didn't want to write. And I don't remember the last time I didn't want to read. Actually, I do remember. Three months ago. Austerlitz.

I can't decide why I want to write. There are simply too many reasons. I just know that this desire transcends the appeal and power I found in words. This urge to write was born of the powerful need to be heard. To tell stories. To be remembered. Because if there is something I fear more than death itself is the inevitability of oblivion.

I write because I want to create characters that stand the test of time. I write to better understand our struggles, our ability to deal with them, and our decisions and consequences. I write because writing is a gateway to the divine. I write because writing is a way to empathize, to think and become aware of our limitations. I write because writing makes life brighter and warmer. I write because I wouldn't know what I'm thinking unless I wrote it down. When I write, for the briefest of moments, I have the sneaking suspicion that words lend me their power to do and be anything I want. When I'm writing, I'm invincible. I'm at once everything and nothing. That's the funny thing about words: something so small contains an immeasurable amount of power. The perfect sentence, a witty remark, a play on words, that's what I love. I fell in love with words. A pure, traffic-stopping, lip-licking, chocolate rich love.

I write because there are no rules in writing. Frankly, sometimes we need to let ourselves remember that rules need not apply everywhere. I write because I wouldn't know what happiness is if I didn't. I write to color the area between black and white. I write because writing restores hope and meaning.

Writing is licking one's fingers and patting one's belly after a scrumptious meal. Writing is thinking through our fingers. Writing is beautiful. Timeless. Magical. Writing is my sanctuary.