At a young age, I always liked to read. I’m unsure whether it’s because my mom forbid us from watching TV because she thought "Spongebob" would make us stupid, or because someone was smart enough to shove a "Harry Potter" book under my nose before I turned six, but either way, I had a love affair with words before I was even old enough to tie my shoes. It wasn’t long before my grandparents caught on to my "Harry Potter" obsession and was gifting me and my sister three volumes of the series on audio book.

Since I was still at the tender age where I needed a nightlight shining obnoxiously in the corner of my room at all times during the night, I began getting into the habit of turning on the tape player at bedtime and letting the narrator to "Harry Potter" lull me to sleep.

12 years later, nothing has changed.

12 years of Jim Dale’s narration being drilled into my brain resulted in this really irritating tic I used to have where I would constantly narrate the goings-on around me. This only lasted about five years, though, before I decided that I needed to start writing things down before I exploded.

After finding my voice in a Meg Cabot book at the age of nine, it was decided, then and there, that I wanted to write. It gave me no greater pleasure than to create characters much older than me, who had the nerve and the guts to do things that I would never be able to do—especially in elementary school.

But why I started writing and why I write are two entirely different matters. I started writing because it seemed like the natural thing to do. I was at an age where I had endless amounts of creativity coming to me from some amazing, enchanted place that has, ultimately, banned me from reentry.

Once I reached middle school, I knew, without a doubt, that writing was what I wanted to do. I thought I was good at it, and it was something practical that I felt could be used in future careers.

Once I turned my passion into a job, that’s when “Why I Write” became “Why I’m FORCED to Write.”

The honest answer to the question as to why I write is now because I feel obligated. I feel like I signed my soul over to the Gods of Writing and now Ernest Hemingway and Sylvia Plath have doomed me to follow in their footsteps by rewarding me with nothing but a dead-end imagination and boundless amounts of writers block. I write now because I feel like I don’t know myself without writing, even though it’s beginning to feel like a long-term boyfriend that I’m starting to lose feelings for. It’s still with me because we’ve been together for too long and I don’t know who I am without it anymore and I’m too scared to find out. So, I’ll sit down in front of my computer, writing this because I need to, even though the keys don’t feel like home and the screen has long since ceased being a comfort.

But, I suppose, all in all, the answer to the question as to "Why I Write" is a simple one. It is a husband that I married too early in life. It is understanding and comfortable and has been tied to me for so long that I do not know where I end and it begins. I write because writing is a part of me, even though we have our ups and downs. It is a relationship that requires lots and lots of work. I write because I tied the knot to my passion, and I’ve been swinging from it ever since.