Why do I write?

I just do, you know?

Does that seem trite?

It’s not a conscious choice I’ve made, you see.

It is merely a part of me.

I write because sometimes, there is no one there to listen. When the day has ended, and the dog snores on the floor by my feet, sometimes there is no one there to talk with me. The television, with its incessant noise, blares in the background. It assumes that someone, anyone, is sitting there, listening to whatever’s being shown on the screen. And more than likely, there is. But late at night, when I’m alone on the couch, the darkness surrounding me outside, sometimes there is no one there to listen……to me.

I write because it is the only medium I feel I’m good at. I’ve taken all the classes – tennis, gymnastics, piano, and ballet. I studied vocal music all through school, only to be told by my choir director, who was disgusted by my lack of interest in pursuing a statewide vocal competition, that I would “never succeed in music.” I followed my love of ceramics throughout the years as well – art camp, classes, private lessons - only to be left with shelves upon shelves of pots of all sizes and shapes, overloaded with errors in technique. My pursuit of graphic design grew as I studied in the Southern Hemisphere, amongst students with years of practice. I foolhardily assumed that my love of colors, fonts, and layouts would carry me through my career, only to realize it took someone with a born talent to truly succeed behind the computer screen.