I write because I’m happy.

I write because I’m sad.

No, this isn’t going to be a reboot of “His Eyes Are on the Sparrow.” I’m writing in my speaking voice, not my singing one.

And wait, there’s more…

I write because I’m gay.

I write because I’m black.

I write because I’ve spent most of my life riding the outskirts.

I write because I root for the underdog.

I write because I’m hated

I write because I’m loved.

I write because I’ve loved.

I write because I’ve loved and lost.

I write because my heart has been broken.

I write because I’m crazy.

I write because I’m sane.

I write because I’m passionate.

I write because I get tongue-tied.

I write because there’s so much to say… and I can’t say it as well as I can write it.

I write because James Baldwin wrote.

I write because of the opening line in Toni Morrison’s Beloved124 was spiteful.

I write because of the final lines in Zora Neal Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching GodSo much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.

I write because of the poetic language in Oscar Wilde’s Salome... The moon has a strange look tonight. Has she not a strange look? She is like a mad woman, a mad woman who is seeking everywhere for lovers.

I write because of my favorite line in James Joyce’s Dubliners. …for in my heart I’d always despised him a little.

I write because of the imagery in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Kubla Khan... A damsel with a dulcimer in a vision once I saw…

I write because of “The Devil. Ivan’s Nightmare” in Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov.

I write because of the heroines in Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged and “The Husband I Bought.”

I write because Patricia Highsmith made me root for the bad guy.

I write because someone once compared my work to that of Franz Fanon.

I write because life is messy.

I write to organize the chaos.

I write to document.

I write because I had an experience.

I write because I had a conversation.

I write because I heard a story.

I write to tell a story.

I write to escape.

I write to focus.

I write because I think.

I write because I have to let it out.

I write to inform.

I write to explain.

I write to persuade.

I write to entertain.

I write because I can’t do anything else.

I write because my mother told me I could do anything I set out to do.

I write because I have a voice.

I write because I want it to be heard.

I write because my mind won’t shut up.

I write because I can’t sleep.

I write because I can.

I write because I can’t not write.

I write because I’m alive.

Brother Son Husband Friend Loner Minimalist World Traveler. Author of “Is It True What They Say About Black Men?” and “Storms in Africa” https://rb.gy/3mthoj

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