Words call me. They lure me back—to the computer keyboard, the book, the legal pad, the Scrabble board, the crossword puzzle.
They disturb my sleep, keeping me up 'til dawn, waking me before first light. They buzz around my head like mosquitoes on a summer night: humming and whining, until I finally swat them and leave their carcasses on paper. Then at last, I can get some rest, until the next crop hatches and begins their annoying, seductive song—keening in my ears as they dance around my head.
Why do I write? I write for my own peace of mind, for my own sanity. I write because I must.
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