Why I Write

I write to make sense of people and to hand that sense back to you as a story.

When I was seven, I designed an assistive suit that could help paraplegics walk and lift with superhuman strength. I drew the joints, listed the mechanisms, and filled pages with use cases: from easing hard, dangerous jobs to helping someone stand and move again. I don’t remember my first story, but I remember that invention. Words and sketches stitched together as a promise that imagination could touch the real world.

I keep writing because it’s the best way I know to turn talk into truth. I love conversations: the small confessions, the bright phrases, the stubborn contradictions. I can’t write the full history of everyone I’ve met, so I distill it with an essence here, an anecdote there. Characters are what remains after all that refining. When they face a problem, nine times out of ten I can hear a voice I’ve heard in life, and the scene sharpens.

The work costs something. It takes time: at least an hour a day, sometimes four or five. It asks me to plot in meticulous detail, then throw away half that plan once the draft starts breathing. The trade is worth it: the moment a paragraph clicks and a reader feels something interesting and new.

Here’s how I show up for it. I wake at 4 a.m., no alarm. Before the world can interrupt me, I make coffee, ignore my phone and email, skip the never-ending to-do list, and start. Fresh mind, blank page, no noise.

While it’s fun for me, I write for you. I want you to have fun, to feel things, to bump into a new idea and leave with a slightly different angle on the world. If you carry only one sentence away, let it be the one that opens a window. I’ll keep meeting the page in the dark hours, cutting what doesn’t serve, and chasing the truest version of the story. If you meet me there as a reader, I’ll do my best to make it worth your time.