Writing. Why do I do it? I have been writing since I was about 12 years old. I used to fill notebooks with story ideas. It probably stems from the fact that I have always been an avid reader, which I think is a prerequisite to being a writer. I used to read everything I could get my hands on, from books to magazines to cereal boxes. I grew up in a small town in rural Missouri, where there wasn’t much to do. So, I read. It was my escape. It still is. I can open a book, and slip into a world far away. My reading tastes have developed and changed over the years. I was reading Reader’s Digest by the age of ten, devoured Walter Farley books through my junior high years, and was reading Stephen King in high school. Our local public library was a wonderful place – it was an old white house, two stories, with books tucked in every room. There were even books along the staircase, which was one of my favorite places. I used to sit on the stairs, surrounded with books, alone with the classics. There was also an old clawfooted tub in the old bathroom on the first floor. But my favorite room was the restricted room. You were supposed to be 18 to go in there. That’s where Stephen King’s books were, and I wanted in there something awful. The librarian knew me well, and knew that I had read nearly every book in the children’s section and the pre-teen and teen rooms. One afternoon, I asked the librarian about Carrie. I had heard about the movie, but wasn’t allowed to see it. I wanted to read it. She told me that she would let me go in and pick out a book, if I didn’t tell any of my friends, because she wouldn’t let others go in. I started with Carrie, then moved on to Cujo and Christine. I was hooked. Horror was my genre of choice for quite some time. My writings reflected my reading, and I wrote short stories about a scared babysitter, a girl considering suicide, and a house that was alive, among other things. I also went through a sci fi phase, where I read Kurt Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury, and my writing reflected my interests. I wrote about aliens, and alternate Earths. I read, I write. Always have, always will. Wait. I take that back. I took a break from reading and writing once I started college. Life took over. Things like homework, studying, and then work controlled my schedule. For a while, I tried to write, after I found out a co-worker wrote also. We started writing a romance together, which actually went pretty well for a while, but then work, a divorce, remarriage, and a child cut into my writing time and I chose to not make writing a priority. There’s always tomorrow, right? I harbored hopes of being published. It’ll happen someday, I thought. But something happened. I discovered that I resented that. I wasn’t as happy. And I began to think about what kind of example I was setting for my daughter, particularly as she has gotten older and I became more aware of her as an individual. And then my best friend died at the age of 36. Suddenly, I realized that someday wasn’t a promise, it was a possibility. My husband supported me in my dream, and gave me a laptop. It is easily the best gift I have ever gotten in my life. He showed confidence in me, and gave me the encouragement I needed to get started. I joined National Novel Writing Month and Book-in-a-Week. And I started making writing a priority. And made reading a priority. I allow time for reading at least five days a week. I write every day. Very, very rarely do I miss a day. It is working for me. I am more satisfied with my life in general, I am setting a good example for my daughter, I am making a little extra money to support my family, I am more creative, and I am more organized.

In short, I write, not because it is something to do, but because it is what I am. I am a writer.