I write for the feeling of pencil against paper. I write for the sound of fingers against keyboards. I write to angst. I write to memories. I write to empty out my garbage mind. I write to prove myself right. I write because someone else proved me wrong. I write for fun. I write as a newborn child staring at an obstetrician’s face. I write as an elderly person forgetting the details of a vivid life. I write for lost pieces. I write because my ancestors could not. I write because people today cannot. I write because each letter has a different color. I write because it’s 6 A.M. and I have had an evangelical dream. I write because I have trouble expressing myself with my tongue and teeth and lips. I write for the luxury of deliberation. I write because hand cramps are deeply satisfying. I write to feel valuable.  I write to feel worthless. I write when the chorus of a Disney song brings tears to my eyes. I write because I speak. I write because I cannot speak. I write because others cannot speak. I write because I wanted to be J.K. Rowling, Rick Riordan, Roald Dahl. I write because I want to be myself.