I’ve seen more than a fair share of interviews and the like where an author will say the number one question they get is where their ideas come from. Honestly, I can’t recall a single time when I’ve seen an interview where an author was asked why they write. That’s, I don’t know. I think it’s kind of profound.
Anyways, I figured I’d actually write a bit on why I decided to be a writer. For me, honestly, it’s about one thing really. Well, two, but I don’t think that finally getting to make out with a girl dressed like Aayla Secura because she saw me at a Con and I wrote a book is A. Ever going to happen, or B. worth exposing the depths of my nerdness in blog form over.
I remember I was writing Demon Jack for a good portion of the Fall and into Winter. I can’t, right off the top of my head, remember the date I finished it on. Somewhere in the writing of Jack, Newtown happened. It sort of dawned on me then, watching the footage, why I do what I do. We live in a world, that while it possesses infinite beauty and wonder and all that other hippy stuff, is downright nasty sometimes. That kind of nastiness, well, it can weigh on you a bit. I remember, next time I saw my son after the shooting, scooping him up and pretty much smothering the poor guy with a hug.
The point is, that incident sort of reminded me of why I do what I do. Writing and reading both have always been an escape for me, a chance to put this world away and go somewhere else for a little while. It’s the same for a lot of people I’m sure. I feel like if I’m able to contribute to that, I should.
I mean, I’ll be honest, I’m not in this for the money. I’m not in it for fame or the groupies (do writers even have those?). I’m just in it because I can give someone a chance to be a little happier, simple as that.