Why I Write

Compulsion.

Straight up. That's why I write. Because I must.

When I was a boy, I told stories very much like that old man in the bazaar whose snake occasionally pokes his head out of the wicker basket.

"Now?" she asks.

The old man answers with a small, stiff shake of the head. Not yet.

She understands. She waits. She listens. When her turn comes, slowly and with practiced poise, she lifts her head above the basket's rim. She peers out into the audience--men, women, children from across the empire--and shares a hiss. She watches as a collective shudder seizes each member, resisting the urge to howl with laughter.

With a word the old man dismisses her and silently she descends, where she may now rest with ease.

You see? I couldn't help myself. Very much like when I was a boy, the compulsion to tell stories lives and breathes in me. I cannot watch television, read a line of dialogue, inhabit a stage character without spinning tales and side-tales and sequels and prequels and companions.

Why?

Hell if I know! It literally just happens. My brain's wired to tell stories in the same way my body's wired toward male romantics. I could tell you I need stories. I could tell you I love stories. (I do.) I could tell you I frame my life with story.

Truth is, I just write. If I could stop... well, I've tried. Doesn't seem to work for me. The way I see it is I ought to get paid to do this thing, whether I need it, love it, or whatnot, I cannot stop doing.

I'm a writer.

That's why I write.