The Big Why

“What made you want to be a writer?” asked no one, but I’m going to pretend someone thinks the answer is important.

I wish I could remember the first story I wrote, but it was a long time ago. And I can’t pinpoint the moment in my life that I decided I wanted to be an author. Kindergarten graduation involved us picking a career and I said a vet. How long after that did I switch? When did I realize that people could create a story and someone would buy it?

Books have been a massive part of my life. My parents read to me from the earliest stages (Dr. Seuss was among my favorites, and then Beverly Clearly, and of course J.K. Rowling). Going to the library at school made my day bright, and to this day getting books for gifts is better than anything else.  I have over 100 to-read novels sitting in my room right now.

What made me want to be a writer? Because I want to contribute to someone’s to-read list. I want to unearth some of the ideas floating around in my head and turn them into something more. I want the things that matter to me to matter to other people.

Writing feels amazing when it’s going well. It’s like stretching your muscles or slipping into a hot bath or climbing into bed after a long day and you know you get to sleep in the next day. It’s just one of life’s satisfactions for me. And why wouldn’t I treat myself to something that great all the time?

Yeah, it doesn’t always feel good. Sometimes I stretch because it aches, or I don’t have time for a good soak in the tub and have to hurry and shower, or I drag my feet getting to bed because there are other things I’d rather be doing. Writing sometimes sucks and I wonder why the heck I’ve chosen this path for myself. But the good outweighs the bad always and honestly I wouldn’t choose anything else for myself.

I love stories. I want to be full of them. And I want to share them.

It’s that simple.