Books

Why I Write

(Insert funny .jpg meme involving a pencil here)

It’s not about the prettiness of the prose. It’s about painting a picture. Telling a story. Getting someone who only knows me through my words from point A to point B in a way that keeps them engaged. That’s what does it for me.

So that’s what I do. I write. I also edit, too, but I’m not quite as good at that one, so this post may (might? Who knows, I don’t have an editor!) contain some errors. Doubly so if I decide not to edit it at all. But as I scratch the stubble on my chin and suppress a yawn, I come to a conclusion: it doesn’t matter if I do. Because, the reality is, you’ve read this far. I’ve already gotten you to come along on a journey with me. That’s why I write.

Besides, what else am I going to do at five o’clock in the morning?

(For full disclosure, this post was written at 5:10 a.m. on a groggy Saturday morning. If you want more irrational nonsense, don’t forget to follow on Twitter.)

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