There’s many reasons I write. Most make me certifiably crazy.
“I hear voices.” “The people in my head won’t shut up.” “I can’t sleep because of the babbling in my mind.”
Ignore what I just wrote and focus. I have other reasons besides the voices for writing. Let’s talk about #3 today.
It was because I was lost. I was lonely. I had an infant who wouldn’t sleep. I’d just moved to a new state, a new scary (not really) area. And I wanted a way to make sense of my life.
So I started writing my first novel (well, sort of. Not really first, or second…but first finished). And this is why I kept writing this book and many more: because I felt good when I wrote. No matter what was going on in my life, I had that book and those characters. They didn’t get me, because they didn’t know me. But I got them. I was connected to them. I was a part of something that made sense to me when my life didn’t make sense. It was imaginary, and the people unreal, but it made me feel alive.
And so, again, I’m here bearing my heart for the internet to judge, but I’ll say it. I show up every day for my books. And I do that for the sole reason that they show up for me. No matter what’s happening in my life, I can turn to those pages and find a place to connect. I guess you can say I like living in an imaginary world. Sue me. I’m a dreamer.