Why does a writer write?

Because we can’t not write. I’ve wanted to write books since I first learned to read them — sprawled on my bedroom floor, sounding out letters and words in a book about a mama duck and her chicks.

We write because we love words — the feel of them on the tongue, their sound in the ear. We love their origins, their evolution in a living language. Their precision and subtlety of meaning.

We write because we know what words can do.

They’re  the swell and lilt of music. They’re  primal memory. They inspire, provoke. Transport, transform. Devastate. Draw us on like the sweet ache of a siren, though we know full well what lies ahead …

Deep inside the writer is the child, still sounding out words … reveling in the taste, the song …