So here I am again. I obeyed the alarm. Did my toiletries. Shuffled to the kitchen and hit the coffee maker switch. I’m starting another day as a writer. I’ll decide what to work on and settle into the routine. Most of the time I do this without thinking about it, without asking myself why I am a writer.
It’s a valid question though. In my case I’ve been doing this for fifty-six years. Why? Why do artists draw and writers write? How do you answer that question when, from time to time, it bubbles to the surface? Is it a calling? An addiction? A hunger? A need to explore the universe of our minds? What do you think?