Why I Write

Once upon a time I was great at everything.

In grade school I won every award imaginable (even penmanship), broke the record for the most gold stars and kicked some major ass at dodgeball. My high school years never saw a diet, a bad hair day or a pimple.  And I was always asked to prom.

Then I started writing. 

Like the survivor of some tragic car accident, I blocked out the exact moment when I first decided to write. I am only able to recall events of the aftermath; like a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes and a week’s worth of neglected showers. I even gave myself something called “ulnar palsy”, apparently caused by overworking my left pinky on the shift key. Really.

Since I started writing I’ve lost most of my hair, gotten hemorrhoids due to prolonged sitting and have developed a furrow in my brow that no amount of Botox can touch. I’m also shorter somehow.

But I can’t stop. I’ve never done ANYTHING I couldn’t master almost immediately, and I have become obsessed with the challenge of writing novels. Or short stories. Or essays. Bathroom stall literature. Anything.

It doesn’t matter what genre, what POV, or how many I write at the same time (I have three in various stages of completion), I am compelled to write. When I’m not writing I’m learning about writing, or publishing or marketing. And of course, reading.

What I find I do not do often is blog. There are so many characters and stories swirling around in my head that are infinitely more interesting than anything having to do with me, that I struggle to find something about myself to offer in a post.

So here I am: The world’s suckiest writer.

(My spell checker just let me know that “suckiest” is not a word.)

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