Why I Write

Dawn, the border between worlds. Photo by David G Shrock.

Dreams during my childhood filled my head with visions of wonder, adventures across the cosmos visiting other worlds, traveling back in time. Ghosts were my companions fighting zombies, trekking across ruined landscapes, and docking my spacecraft to orbital stations. Whenever a difficult question emerged, I worked it out with the ghosts by imagining the strange wonders of the cosmos. I made many friends, memories. I met many ghosts.

I still do.

Ghosts, haunting memories, take me where I never imagined as a child. They show me new ways of viewing life and the cosmos. Even while riding my bike across the bridge, looking at the city in Dawn’s splendor, the ghosts are with me pulling me into their land.

Ghosts whisper secrets. I call them ghosts, but they are not dead. They live, their memories burning into the fabric of the cosmos. Torre is one of them.

Writing is not my trade. A writer is not who I am. Telling stories is not a position or a service. It’s what we do. We share our ghosts. I’m a computer scientist with stories consuming my head.

I write for practice. I write for an audience of one, except maybe for Mom as well. Not for recognition, not for money, I never dream of my name on spines of books. Writing is hard. I enjoy visiting new places. Not writing. I write so I don’t forget. Practice improves my writing so I may tell their story with the honor they deserve. I write for them.

I write for her.

After years of exploring, sharing lives together, information builds into a river threatening banks. They want their story told. She needs her story told before the river floods the land washing away dreams leaving ghosts without a home. They need a place to call their own.

I tell their story so in the end, they have a place to stay, their own piece of cosmic fabric to remember them.

Remember her. I write for one.

I write for Torre.

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Why do you write?