I was born a storyteller. My mother often recounts how, when we lived in the city and I was quite small, she would go to tuck my brothers and I in at night and would often hear my bug brother asking me to tell him goodnight stories. It was so long ago, I have no memory of it, now, but storytelling has always been with me. In very real way, more than writing itself, it’s always been the stories, spoken to those I love, that has been with me, that have driven me. When I get an inspiration, I don’t want to write it down, but speak it.
I remember when my littlest brother nearly died when his appendix ruptured, I whispered fantasy stories late into the night to keep his mind off the pain. When he came home, we would walk down my mile-long dirt road, and I would make up a story which stretched on and on, so that we’d have to break it up into episodes, and at bedtime my youngest siblings would ask me to finish it. Some of those stories are still going, have yet to reach an end.
I write to keep my own mind off the pain, I told stories to survive. Not just to survive, but to live. Stories are liquid hope.
And now that I know how to live, I want to share that with people. I want to share the fires that warm my heart, to spread them amongst friends in the cold of winter. Writing is my love, realized, and shared. That is why I write.
I write to live. I write to love.