Why I write

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This morning did not start well. I was tense and nervous. I’d slept badly. The heating wasn’t on. I was filled with the kind of nebulous dread that can come out of nowhere and squeeze your mind to pulp. Words can barely express how much I did not want to crawl out of bed and go to work.

Then I opened my computer and found an email accepting a story I’d submitted for publication. And my mood soared. Not because I was going to be published again, though that’s brilliant. Not because I’ll get paid for it, though that is very nice. But because someone liked my story, someone who doesn’t know me, who’s judging only the thing I created. Liked it enough to put it in his magazine, to offer it up to other people and say ‘you want to read this’.

This isn’t the only reason I write. It might not even be the main reason. But when it happens it’s an amazing feeling, and that keeps me going.

So I hopped out of bed, and it was, as Akira the Don says, a glorious thing. All because I write.