Why do I like to write? I write because I love the words. The words that stump and tempt me to look up. The words I know above all the rest. The change of language, punctuation, pronunciation means little to me. It is the thoughts I dictate and choose to pass on. It is an eternal thought that I live to pass on forever.
I remember reading my fathers letters to his father when he was away from home in the army. I realized my father was a poet and a dreamer. I crave to write letters as that. He described the long days, the heat, the cooking, and the weekend poker games. He spoke to his father of longing for a home cooked meal and baseball games.
Maybe I will write like that one day. Maybe I will have a passion, a belief, or a kind soul awaiting my next correspondence. I do not have my fathers letters to read. They are family nostalgia buried in steamer trunks long forgotten about and covered in dust from years of seasons gone by. Today I read war letters from ages past. Maybe to find that connection to those writings I found long ago.
I read and Dream of history. The Pacific, the battlefields, and anthologies scribbled in blood. There were letters from Iwo Jima and the Gettysburg diaries sent home while a soldier breathed his last breaths and gazed upon his last full moon.
I love stories is the point I am trying to make. I do read fiction, but it is usually historical fiction. I love the stories of cowboys cracking their whips on herds of cattle and the transcontinental railroad men striving to make their way in the world. Pounding Iron and steel to a beat that sounded of western fortune and destiny. The lives these men lead translate to stories I cherish in the McDonald’s and Walmart consumer driven world that they built, and I live in today.
I remember reading detective stories as a young boy. I was consumed by the history and intelligence involved in solving a crime. I loved sherlock Holmes growing up. It wasn’t the intelligence he had that made him great. It was the everyday mundane details and the attention paid to these details that made him great. It was more than the mystery of these tales that drew me in. It was the environment that Arthur Conan Doyle created around his protagonist that I loved. The description of the weather, smells, and clothing intensified my cravings to turn the page.
Why do I write? I write to capture a moment. The oral history of my life. I write to understand a period of change that recollection cannot do justice to. The moments that change me. The moments that add deep and beautiful color to my soul. I write to describe the butterflies and nervousness of living the average daily American life.
Asking me what I write is such a vague question. It is a question based on the assumption of a definite answer. It is like asking someone what they eat. Does anyone ever answer, “I eat apples”? I write what is appetizing to my palate when I am caught up in the hunger of thought.