It’s complicated...

I was four years old when I wrote my first story. My older brothers had come home from school talking about a writing competition. I wanted to enter it, but for some reason no one wanted a four year old's story. My wonderful mother suggested I write one anyway. It just made sense to me. I'd been reading for at least a year at that point and absolutely loved it, so why wouldn't I try to create a story like the ones I cherished so deeply? The story was about a bald eagle named Baldy (real original, I know) who had trouble making friends because he was bald. Eventually he met a few other animals, including a bear (I think), and they became friends with him despite his baldness. I admit, I'm a little bit fuzzy on the rest of the details. Give me a break though. I was four. 

Why do I write now though? For all sorts of reasons, I suppose. I just love it. I love putting my thoughts into words. I'm not a big talker, but sometimes I need to say something. Writing is good for that. Sometimes I just have a crazy idea that I want to turn into a story because it's the kind of thing I want to read. Sometimes I write to help myself and others understand someone else's point of view. Sometimes I write because everything in my life is crazy, and I need to create something I have some semblance of control over. Sometimes I write to remind myself that I can. Actually, the more I write about writing, the more I'm realizing that the reason I write changes with just about every thing that I write. So I guess I write because writing is the one thing that I can turn to regardless of the situation, mood, or mind-set I'm in. Whatever I want to accomplish, writing can help me get there.