Someone asked me today why I started writing.  I was tempted to pull up my blog and say, here, read THIS.  Of course, I did not.  I’ve already addressed why I started writing, it was an attempt to control my life.  An attempt to control something I felt was spiraling into the black abyss of averageness.  (I love the phrase black abyss, by the way.  I realize it’s a bit redundant, but I don’t care.  I’ve used it elsewhere in my writing, but I can’t remember where at this moment.  This may make my overall point completely off-base, you’ll have to be the judge.)

I think the real question is: Why have I continued writing?

Hmmm… Now isn’t that a doozy.  I could simply say I enjoy it, which is true.  I could say I have nothing better to do, which is basically true.  Or I could say that once I started, I felt a pull, a compelling need to keep going, which is definitely true as well.

But none of those are the real reasons I continue to write.

I keep writing because deep down, I think I’m good at it.

Okay, how horrible is that?  And vain.  I know.  But, I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn’t continue on a path I thought would lead to nothing.  Again, read my first post and how many times I switched my career goals.

(OH!  I just remembered where I used the term “black abyss” in my other writing.  It’s in Chapter 47 of Twenty-Five.  I hope this admission doesn’t make you seriously reconsider whether or not you want to read Twenty-Five, unless you didn’t want to read it before and now knowing it has such an awesomely redundant but kinda-cool-poetic phrase you do.)

I write now because I think I’ve found something I actually do have a talent for.  I could be completely wrong.  I hope I’m not.  I normally don’t take praise to heart, but I’ve made friends based on my writing.  People I never would have met or known have read and ENJOYED my book.  Maybe I shouldn’t believe every word of positive feedback they give, but it can’t ALL be BS, right?

Since I graduated college, I’ve been wondering where all my potential went.  I found it with a pen in my hand.  And that’s why I continue to write.