Why do I write?

I hear these voices inside my head,

and they beg and they beg,

to be written down, to be expressed.

That’s all fine and good except:

‘Writing isn’t a real job.’

‘Writing won’t pay the bills.’

This criticism kills.

This is my life and I don’t want to live it,

if in it I can’t make writing fit.

But why do I write?

Maybe I write because I’m lonely,

Or because I feel like no one really knows me.

Maybe I write due to a lack of friends,

or because I like controlling how a story ends.

Writing is my calling.

It is simply what I do.

To those who object, I say to you:

if your only purpose in life is to criticize mine,

then I appreciate my life as better than thine.