If you were to ask every writer, living and deceased, why they wrote, you would get a myriad of responses.

"I write for the living!" Some would say.

"I write for the dead!" Others declare.

"I wrote for the future!"

"I wrote for the past!"

"I wrote to free myself!"

"I write to free others!"

I write, I wrote, I write.

My love for the written word came after my love for dance and before my love for song.

My first memory of writing my own original content was in third grade, when I had gotten a bad grade for one of my assignments (a story writing assignment) and my teacher had said that it was not a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Little did I know, I had discovered in media res on accident. But the bad grade did not deter me from ever writing again. Like most bad grades, it made me even more adamant and determined to prove to her that I could be a good writer. And so I began my first notebook full of short stories, unfinished stories and snippets that came to my mind during recess, lunch or a lesson. I lost the notebook at one point and my teachers became frustrated with my incessant asking if they had "seen my notebook". I guess I knew then that if the notebook fell into the wrong hands, I would be "exposed" somehow. Sadly, it never turned up, the contents lost. But the stories, characters, scenes, thoughts, memories and fierce struggles kept coming. Notebooks turned into Word documents over the years (but I still keep old fashioned notebooks around because nothing can compare to writing it down). I became bolder in my writing, adding prose, poetry and even prompts for my future senior paper.

But this isn't even why I write.

I write because it is all I know how to do. The words command me and I am powerless against them. Connecting with another human being through the written word is powerful and meaningful, as exemplified by many works of literature that change people's lives and echoes against the stifling silence of ignorance.

Writing articles, stories, essays, prose and poetry is all the same when you see it from the perspective of the writer. It is all about who the story is about. Is it about you? Then it is autobiographical. Is it about her or him or them? Then it is biographical. Is it a fictionalized tale of true events? Then it is historical fiction. Is it about someone that doesn't exist but I think that should? Then it is fiction.

So what is the common denominator?

The words.

They whisper, "We will guide you. Just put the pen to the paper and let us do the work." And my brain flies to work. Sometimes, I can't keep up and I have to pause, find my train of thought and slow it down. But the words stay the same. "We will guide you. Do not worry."

And if I do not write, the words will be locked up in jail cells, begging, demanding, fighting to be released. They will bubble up out of my fingertips and dance onto paper anyways, onto the screen, onto the walls and shout to the world "Here we are!".

I write because there is nothing else I can do.

Some are commanded by the instrument. Others are commanded by their reflexes or skillful body. And others still are commanded by the outside world.

I am commanded by these words.

And when I have written my last and the words free me, then I will be released to go home.

But I don't see that happening any time soon.