Why I write

It would make the most sense to say that I write to be understood, but that really isn’t the point. I could say I write because I feel mildly decent at it, but it’s not that either.

The two main reasons I write are because my grandmother told me to, and because I don’t want someone else to feel alone.

When I was 13 I ran across a blog called the Journal of Speculative Disease. Many authors contributed to it but there was one whose work constantly spoke to my soul.

“I leave voice mails on people’s machines. I left prints in the snow where I walk. I must be somewhere, but where am I?”

His works made me realize that I wasn’t the only person who felt lost in time. I’m not the only person who is watching life happening around them wondering how they all seem to know how to act and treat each other and what to do and I’m just over here sitting in the dirt wondering where the kids like me are.

The kids like me are writers. They’re other survivors. They’re the other kids who build computers and fix cars. They’re the kids who think scrabble in the floor of a dirty loft on a Sunday night seems like acceptable plans.

So I write to tell you that I’m here. I’m going through a journey similar to yours and you’re not alone.

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