“You’ve chosen a real interesting path,” my editor told me. “It’s borderline masochistic.”

Yep. So, why then, do I write?

The short answer; I want to be rich and famous and this seemed the most likely way to get there, barring reality TV.

I kid. The truth is, I long to have a reason that stands apart from the trite responses I’ve heard–– not that I get asked often, but for my future press interviews, it’s nice to plan ahead.

I just do.

Hoping this isn’t a let down, but since I was young, my immediate response in most of life’s challenging or happy moments is to write. I find it’s the essential way for me to process my experience and come to a meaningful conclusion. It creates space and takes thoughts outside  the chaos of my mind and into a place where there is zero judgement: the page.

When I write something down, it’s in black and white, right there for me to face. Writing reveals everything. It shows me how clear I am, it takes me through an experience and sometimes touches upon other ideas that were hidden in my subconscious.

In happier times, it’s a way to remember that everything changes and nothing is permanent. It’s the best material to reread during tough times and remember that familiar feeling of joy. My writing often confirms that I don’t learn or particularly grow during happy times. Mostly, happy times are easy. They affirm what I’ve been doing, they make life joyful and worth living, but they are not where the interesting stuff happens. That resides in a place that is more complex. This is the place that prompts me to write. It’s a way to cope, a way to work through, a way to give meaning.

This is why I write.