I’ve never had real zeal for writing. I was never especially good at it. I was never intently interested in it. I was just told that I could do it well. Good enough. It got me through high school and by the skin of my teeth is helped me to raise my ACT score.
The real reason I write, is so that I can look back at the things I have created and re-read the words that I have strung together. There is magic in reading an old document from and old computer and not recognizing yourself in the words, until you come to something that strikes you so deeply you know that the meaning would only connect with you. I write to surprise myself, later, knowing that when I look back on the piece with words dotted across the pages that I had once written them and had labored over exactly what they would say.
I write because I found an old document on an old computer and read the story with awe and respect, only to be jolted when I saw my name pasted at the bottom. I write because I’ve found my own creativity can surprise me and it gives me something to be proud of, even though I may hate and despise it at the moment.