It silences the characters in my head.
My characters like to talk. They want to be heard. It doesn’t matter to them what time of day or night it is, or what else I might be doing. If they want me to hear them, to pay them attention, they won’t stop until I do.
Stories itch until they’re told.
Stories themselves are as persistent as the characters that inhabit them. Maya Angelou said “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” She was so right.
Stopping would be like stopping breathing.
I have to write. It’s what I was made to do. What would I do with myself if I didn’t?
Creating whole worlds from nothing is like doing magic.
To make an entire world from nothing more than thoughts in my head, and to portray it in a way that makes other people believe in it is something truly amazing. It’s like I’m bringing my dreams to life, breathing life into them, making them solid. And then giving them to others.
To leave some everlasting part of me for my boys.
Long after I’m gone, my stories will remain. They are part of me, and I am part of them. It’s a way that my children can be close to me, perhaps understand and know me a little more.
Because the world is so damn beautiful, and I want to be a part of that.
I want to contribute to it, not consume it. I can’t paint, or compose music, or build beautiful things. But I can write. I can create beauty from words. And I can remind people that the world is beautiful. Even when they’ve forgotten, which is sometimes too easy to do.