Why I Write

I’d go mad if I didn’t, and I read because I’m insatiably curious about people.

I’m shy. You might not realize this if you talk to me, but just know that during our conversation, I am undoubtedly second-guessing everything I say. And afterwards I may very well go home, crawl into bed with a bowl of ice cream, and cry myself to sleep because my social clumsiness has undoubtedly lost me one more reader who will tell all of their friends that I am crazy and always have my eyes open a little too wide to be normal and have a strange fondness for extreme run-on sentences.

I am not bold, but I am trying to be. I am still learning what it means to have opinions and to defend those opinions. I am still learning not to stress over the fact that I can’t please everybody in the world all the time except by being silent. And I refuse to do that.

I value honesty more than almost anything. Truth can hurt, but it is the only thing that can truly heal.

I love writing. Seriously. I sometimes love having things written (when I’m not freaking out about people hating what I write), but I love the actual writing process. I love the challenge, I love the power of creating and moving and deleting words on a page, and I love watching things transform through my hard work. Plus, I would be a terrible, crotchety, emotionally crippled person if I could not write to sort out my life.