Recently, someone asked me why I write. What purpose it serves, what ends it achieves. I halfway wished I could say that “if I write x amount of pages, it helps me sleep better,” or “if I write at least x times per week I’m a nicer person.” Neither of those things is true. Often I do journal before bed, yes, but the nicer person thing is usually a toss-up.
Words are as essential to my life as breathing, and possibly more essential than things like matching my clothing or keeping my room clean. I write and read because I have to. It’s not a should thing, like running regularly or shampooing my hair. It’s a just because. I write just because.
My sister’s dog and my cousin’s dog.
I am reading “Writing Down the Bones”, which does not reside in my bookbag without a pencil tucked between its pages on account of the fact that I do a lot of underlining.