I write because I find mystery in the ordinary. I’m fascinated by the lives of others. The construction workers laying tiles on the roof: what’s their story? The woman in front of me in the grocery check-out line—who is she? I cannot paint or sketch, but landscapes and urban spaces have always fascinated me, and I try to capture their essence in words. Street smells, random chatter, the sound of the motorcycle two blocks over. The hibiscus dropping its leaves on the brick pavers. I strive to capture these experiences with words.
I write because characters speak to me in my head, and sometimes, they won’t shut up.
When I write, the creative process fills up some of the emptiness inside me. I am more comfortable living inside my head rather than dealing with the complications of reality, and many times, this self-imposed isolation leaves me wanting contact and connection. Writing fulfills my need to engage with the world, yet it allows my imagination to (somewhat) control reality. When I don’t write, I feel lonely, soul-empty; I seek satisfaction elsewhere instead of letting creativity fulfill me.
I write because it is what I’ve always done. Journals, short stories, novels—they are my life, and I don’t know otherwise.