Of all the questions I’ve been asked, perhaps the one I’ve struggled the most to answer is “Why did you start writing?”
I began writing because I could. It was a simple as that. But I continued because when I write, I feel powerful, like the fire in me can warm the world. When I write I feel as though I have one foot in fantasy, the colossal spectrum of my dreams and the other foot briskly marching on the hard, concrete floor of reality.
I write because I feel beautiful, empowered and free, like I am untethered and soaring. Because when I write, I feel like a soldier bellowing out a war cry and like a black swan in a blue lake, floating on the mysterious waters of love.
I write because it is the only way I can stop the wildfire in my throat from burning out my voice. It is the only way I can subdue the ceaseless torrent of thoughts in my mind and the vague yet relentless itching in my blood.
I write because it is the closest I can ever get to creating magic and I write because the words make me feel extraordinary, like I’m finally the woman I want to be.
So the real question, you see, is not why I started writing but why I never stopped.