I was slogging through this terrible book on writing that I am forcing myself to finish even though it’s God-awful and there was a chapter in which the author was talking about why she writes.

Of course, it got me to thinking: Why do I write?

After all, what’s the point?

My family is always encouraging me to write because they see it as a Harry Potter paved road to riches. I have been around the publishing industry far too long to have any delusions. There is no money in writing. Choosing writing is choosing the path of less money, not more.

My husband is always encouraging me to write because he knows I enjoy it. Perhaps that isn’t a terrible way to think of it. Maybe its just a hobby, like playing The Sims.

But while I do enjoy it, I also know that I do want it to go somewhere. I want what I write out there in some capacity.

If you’ve met me in real life, you know I’m something of a performer. I mean that literally (I was in quite a few plays in my day) and also in a less literal way. I like to make people laugh. I like to have the whole room hanging on my every word.

I like telling stories.

This is what it all boils down to. This is why I write.

I write because a room of friends and family isn’t enough.

I want to tell the world a story.