People often ask me what I write about. That’s easy to answer. What they should ask is why I write. That’s where the gold is.
I write because I’m curious. I’m curious to learn and curious to communicate. All writers have a desire to share a secret. The secret unfolds through words, written or spoken, words that take the reader or listener into the writer’s mind, sees with the writer’s eyes, feels with the writer’s heart, and questions with the writer’s soul. With fiction or prose, it’s the writer’s imagination, with non-fiction, it’s answers. It all writers it’s meaning, we all went to make sense of life.
I’m called an observer, someone who takes it all in, then distills it into the written word. I’m a man of few spoken words, but you can’t silence my pen. I can go all day without saying much, but my fingers are furiously busy on the keyboard.
I’m humbled by some who who compliment my writing. I want to be good, but I’m not there. Not even close. It’s like peeling an endless onion. A never-ending journey.
What the mind can imagine, what the soul struggles to understand, what the heart feels – that’s what I write about. It’s a broad landscape. I write to find meaning about the world, myself and why the cake was left out in the rain. Why?
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