Why do I write anyway?
There are lots of other things to do, after all. I could catch up on my TV watching for instance, learn to surf, teach my dog to do stupid tricks that might land him a sweet moment on David Letterman. I might go out more with my wife, friends, visit more places, seek out interesting hobbies like poker and needlepoint. Maybe I can sing, after all. I’ve never been able to carry a tune and the very idea of performing gives me hives (in a metaphorical sense), but American Idol here I come.
All I’m saying is I’ve got other things I could be doing.
But nearly every day I wander, somewhat reluctantly now and then but mostly enthusiastically, back to my computer. After some starring out the window, I start the tap, tap, tap of the keys that has become one of the primary rhythms of my life. I make those little letters into words and then sentences and paragraphs and chapters and, eventually, books. It’s still a mystery to me how they can become a story but they do.
Maybe that’s it right there. It’s still a mystery to me. Maybe that’s why.