Why do I write?

What prompted me to begin writing?

Usually, this question comes from scammers claiming to be experts on book covers, cinematic trailers, and book marketing. But usually in their script of questions, they ask “What prompted you to begin writing?” The purpose is to engage you a bit, make you think your work is valuable (even though they’ve never read a word of it), and then try to convince you that you’d become an overnight success if only you followed their simple 7-step plan to marketing books.

But, the question did pique my interest. Why did I start writing? When did I start writing?

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It was my Dad.

I’m 5’11”. My dad was a good four inches taller than me—about 6’3” before age began to shrink his frame. He was a big guy. Big, strong, and intimidating in presence. Yet, he was the kindest, gentlest man I ever knew. He never swore. He never threw things. He seldom raised his voice, but even when he did, he never yelled. He never raised his hand to anyone. He never had an unkind word to say to or about anyone. He was patient, kind, and loving.

As my older sister has said, when you were sad, he was sad with you. When you were happy, he was happy with you. When things were funny, he had a big hearty laugh. When it was time for tears, he never hesitated to shed them. Dad was the very definition of humility and yet he was the smartest person I ever met.

My parents had six children in nine years, and one thing we loved, was to have dad read to us. He was an avid reader. His favorite book was the Bible, and he began and ended every day reading it.

In the evenings, he would gather the children around his chair and read to us a classic novel. Treasure Island, The Count of Monte Cristo, Robinson Crusoe, or The Call of the Wild. He had a nefarious purpose. He would read all the way up to the good part and then stop reading, put the book down, and never pick it back up again. He would leave us for days, sitting in an apple barrel with Jim Hawkins listening to Long John Silver plotting mutiny within earshot. But he’d never finish the book for us, and we just had to know what happened next?

Invariably, we would need to pick up the book and read it, because we just had to know! But, there were six of us. Three boys and three girls and God forbid if the girls got the book first, because it would disappear into their shared bedroom (one bedroom had three girls, the other had three boys). And once it went into that sanctuary where boys were not allowed, it might never come out.

While waiting my turn to read the rest of the book, I would begin making up what might have happened next. At first, it was just me thinking through it, or talking it over with my brothers while the girls hogged the book. But, eventually, I would grab a spiral notebook and begin writing my own version of what happened next. I wish I still had those notebooks today, but they were lost over the years.

But that’s how and why I began writing. I had to know what happened next. And soon, this turned into me writing my own stories so that people would want to know what happened next.

My Dad passed away in 2021. I miss him terribly.

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