Several years ago, I had a discussion with someone I just met. We were discussing my writing, how I started, and how I progressed. It was she who said the word that has stuck with me like a Siamese twin.

Writing is my compulsion.

For the life of me, I can’t imagine NOT writing. I cannot visualize a scene or imagine a circumstance in which I would not sit at my office desk at some sort of a keyboard, and compose a short story, poem, novel, essay….SOMETHING!

Gardeners get their hands dirty. So do chefs. Writers keep their hands busy. And their minds and their eyes. And all their senses. Writers are writing even when they are not at their keyboard.

Henry Miller said, “Writing is its own reward.” Certainly, while I make every effort to publish and promote, I fully understand the sentiment.

Fulfillment comes when I am doing what I truly feel I was born to do. I try desperately not to shirk my human responsibilities. But I’ll be damned if I ever attempt to divert myself from the thing that drives me the most.


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