It is kind of a funny thing to sit here and write about why exactly it is that I write. And, if we’re being honest, I do not actually enjoy the act of writing. I more so agree with Dorothy Parker when she said, “I hate writing. I love having written.”

Upon reading that quote, I had an ultimate moment of clarity. It is not the process. Staring at a blank screen, at a blank piece of paper, that is not fun. That is disappointing. That is exhausting. That is when most people will give up. At least, it’s usually when I give up.

But there’s a reason to come back to the white screen even though the brightness of the bare white page gives me a headache after so long. And even though I feel guilty about the number of trees had to die so their remains, all inked up, can sit in my garbage can, crumpled and thrown away way too soon.

I write because it gives me freedom.

I write because I am inspired to.

I write because, so many times, I feel like I need to.

I write because it is not something that can be taken away from me, nor it is not something that can be forced upon me.

I write because somehow the 26 letters on the keys I push give people a better idea of what’s going on in my head than my mouth ever could. My voice is heard, my message received, and I didn’t even need to waste a breath.

And so, day after day, week after week, I sit at my blue desk and though I hate almost every second of it, I continue on writing and hopefully create a sense of clarity for someone else. And I am glad having done it.