I write because I love language. I write because I am a terrible snob, and I believe only my truth is real. I write in order to dig to China. I write to meet dragons and dolphins and stand before a volcano and an ice mountain. I write to see red sky, orange seas, blue moons. I write to be able to stay home and do nothing. I write because I want to make a living in my pajamas, and I don’t want to keep teaching. I write because I want to understand myself, face myself. I write because I want to be seen. I write because I believe in the power and the magic of writing, because I love to read and be swept up into a story, to fall in love with the characters. I write because I want to be able to offer that to the world. I write because I do not want to go to the dentist. I write because I am an alligator. I write because my throat tickles and mountains are hidden by clouds. I write to keep my cats alive. I write to sing. I write because I want to.
[Editor’s note: This is what I scrawled in my composition book during a writing “practice” on November 20th of last year in response to a Natalie Goldberg prompt to write about why we write and how it’s okay to make up reasons. I am including it here unedited because that seems like the nature of the beast. And for any students who may be reading, I will say I don’t truly know if I want to not teach—this is just what came out. I think I may really want to keep teaching. I think I might miss it if I stopped, might miss you. I think I want it to become a bit more of a choice instead of a need.]