I write because it is MY right.
To put pen to paper, to speak against the night.
The night, so dark, so cold.
It is my right to have my story told.
I write because I am a wright. A playwright,
A writer of love and hope. A righter of wrong.
I write because it is one of the few things in this world that is still mine. Even if I lose my legs or lose my sight, writing is my last rite.

I can write from ANY place.
From the plains of Botswana to Outer Space.
The page is my playground, the pen my compass.
This thing, this right, a sacred place.
I write because I am a wright, and it is MY right, my last rite, to write.