Why I Write
I write because words are immortal.
Everything is falling into decay. A new house is built and immediately it begins its slow suicide. Nails pop, corners curl, and bricks crumble. Of course, it will stand for another 100 years, or perhaps more…but it is on a death march. Every physical thing works this way, following its prescribed path: birth, decline, decay, death. Trinkets rot, souvenirs perish, mementos wither, and memories rust.
But words…with their structural sturdiness and otherworldly magic endure. Words exist within me, outside of me, and without me. Once I have inscribed them to paper, they flit away, out of my reach and independent. When I die, a few sparse words will mark a tombstone but millions of my words will live in the wild, immortal and incorruptible.
This is why I write.