Why do I write?
Why do I breathe, or eat, or sleep?
Writing is fuel. It’s the gruel and ambrosia that feeds the soul.
Words are tears. They heal my heart.
Words are weapons. I hurl them at the injustices I have witnessed.
Words are olive branches I extend to the world.
Writing is my exercise.
Writing gives me a runner’s high.
Writing stretches my mind as my memory muscle grows stronger.
Writing builds me up.
Writing is my vocation.
Writing is what I feel called to do.
Writing brings me closer to the Divine One
writing a poem about the colors of the leaves,
or the cardinal’s bright, red breast.
Deep in my bones, I am a writer.
This is why I write.