As a writer, I've been asked many times how come I like to write, if I like writing essays, where do I find the time to write, and why I even write. The last question always causes me to stumble because that question is not quite easy to answer.

Why do I write?

How do you explain the why to something you have done since you were old enough to hold a pencil and spell out words? How do you explain that ardent fire that stems within you and builds up with words and letters and threads of sentences until it just has to spill out of you and onto the paper? How do you explain that contentment when you get all the words out and are able to view the world you made from scratch? How do you explain the ideas and concepts floating around in your brain begging to be let out? How can you put that into a "why?"

I've been writing since I could remember. In Kindergarten, I would take the little paper booklets meant for us to write vocab words in, and instead write stories. In fourth grade, I wrote a short story for class and spent so much time writing it, making sure it was beautiful and that all the words got their place, that I skipped playing Jeopardy with the class. I instead spent my time writing the rest of the story in the hall with the bad kids who got sent out of the classroom. In seventh grade, I started writing my first book on my parents' old computer in the basement during a cold winter in Alaska. It was a horrible manuscript with hardly a plot and character development, but it was the first time I decided I wanted to be a writer.

The first time I met an author I was star struck and enamored. I wanted to write stories that people could escape into and immerse in. I wanted to create worlds and write everything that I held in my head. One of my favorite authors said that to be a writer and publish a book, "you just have to write." So I do. I write until my eyes are burning from my screen at four in the morning and my laptop is close to dying. I write the words I am afraid to say out loud and scream those words onto paper with splashes of ink in the form of explanation points. I write the words that I need to say.

Now, in my junior year of college, I am just a little bit closer to achieving my dreams as a writer. I still have a long way to go, but each day I inch a little forward. Even if I don't ever publish a book, or bring my stories to Barnes and Noble, I will never stop writing. I will continue to journal, write scenes in the notes section of my phone, and come up with different concepts in my head as I am supposed to be doing something else. Not because I feel like I have to, or that I was told to, but because it's a part of me. Like breathing, writing is a natural act for me. I can never see a life without some form of writing and that's my why.

I write because it's who I am. It's embedded in me. Like a bee is drawn to flowers, I am drawn to words, and it will always be that way.

That's my 'why.'