Why I Write

Do any of you ever wake up in the morning and feel the odd urge to paint a masterpiece, reorganize your entire room, or do something else completely epic?

I come from a family of athletes. My dad played just about every sport imaginable in high school, my sister is a basketball star and a soccer prodigy, my brother is great at basketball and knows every football stat since 1983, and even my mom did track. I got bits and pieces of this athletic ability; I’m built like a runner, I’m starting midfielder on my club soccer team, and I’m rather fast (I’m not trying to brag or anything, promise!).

But I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I wanted to be an athlete like the rest of my family. I woke up and thought, hey, I want to write a novel.

My first attempts were–um, well, they simply were. I won’t go into the details there. But I’ve found myself getting better and better each type I write something new. I’ve had great teachers, too. They taught me that you can’t write without good grammar and that deplorable spelling gets you nowhere (thanks, second-grade teachers).

I think it started in kindergarten. That’s where they taught me to read. Reading was my way of escape, because quite honestly, I absolutely HATE reality–dull, boring, ordinary reality. It was my way to draw myself into my mind and away, into another realm where nothing was dull or boring or ordinary.

The more I read, the more I thought about the peopleĀ behind the magic: the authors. I was in awe at their ability to pen whole worlds with just a few simple words. And I wanted to do it too.

So I got to where I am now, with several half-written novels on my hands and journals full of ideas, plots, and characters just waiting to be employed. And judging by the rush I get when I write, and the carefulness with which each sentence is crafted, I don’t think I’ll stop any time soon. So wish me luck!

The rush, the feeling, the joy of creating something new–that is why I write.




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