“Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke
I write because writers exist. People are capable of making stories. Learning that when I was little, I wanted to be one of those people and I still do now. I want to be the one who takes words and makes them dissolve away to what only each reader and listener can see. I want my stories to take you somewhere magical where you’re no longer sitting holding a book, but you’re on an adventure. When you do drift out of the story to be aware of your surroundings again, I want your heart to continue beating for that adventure of the written word and a reality that makes that dreaming possible.
I write because there are feelings and ideas in my mind that need to be expressed. What if C.S. Lewis decided not to take Aslan from his imagination and place him on the page? That golden lion mesmerizes me. He is not tame, but he is good, and through the words of one man, he made possible so many wondrous things. Mr. Lewis, I want to do what you did for me. I want to show someone somewhere that life is amazing. I don’t know if I have it in me to create a bestseller. I don’t know if I will reach fame, but if one person somewhere feels uplifted by my words, then I have done a job well done. I want to remind people who feel alone in the crowd that they are special too. That’s what books did for me. So now I pour my life into being a wordsmith. There is nothing else I’d rather do.