My mother-in-law, Martha, sent me a copy of Orhan Pamuk’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech describing why he writes.  Though no one has ever asked me, his words got me thinking.  Why am I doing this?

First, someone told me I ought to, and as they say in the Godfather, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Also, like Mr. Pamuk, I write because, though I have tried myriad different vocations for varying salaries, none ever made me as happy as writing, despite having yet to earn a cent!

I write because I yearn to hold my own words in my hands, printed on crisp paper and leather bound, and inhale their scent.

I write because it is better than not writing.  Writing is a vehicle for whatever I desire.  I enjoy watching and reading as ideas take shape and grow into people, places, and stories.

I write to give myself a life I have never had, to visit all the people essential to my being and embrace them fully: the bitch, the grandmother, the bitter man, the romantic, the child.

I write to explore my curiosities (like cars!) and tell “true” stories.  I don’t mean non-fiction here.  When I write, I experience something very real and honest, often laughing, crying, or swearing as I type.  I AM in that room, or walking down the street, or sipping a cup of hot cocoa.

I write to share the world as I see it – unconventional, happy, energetic, structured, sprinkled with pain and wonder – utterly and impossibly beautiful, at least, to me.

p.s. Current word count – 9,359.  I’m not gonna make it, but don’t think twice, it’s alright.  A little Bob for ya…