"If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad." ~Lord Byron

“Why do you want to be a writer?” This is a question I am constantly asked by friends, family, and acquaintances I wish I didn't know. My kneejerk response is normally something like, “I want to be poor for the rest of my life.” While I admit to finding myself clever with this comeback (admit it, you chuckled a little) lately I’ve started to realize that becoming a writer is impossible. I am already a writer.

The emotions I experience when picking up a pen or, if I want to write something legible, opening up a Word document, cannot be compared to anything other than euphoric. I love weaving together words like ugly Christmas sweaters, creating images that seem to play out in front of a person rather than in their mind. Writing is essential to my well-being; sometimes I imagine what my life would be like devoid of composition and, I have to confess, it is not a life I like imagining. Through my writing, I am able to release feelings I cannot express publicly, aspirations I have, and worries that weigh heavy on my mind. The therapy of composition cannot be ignored.

Whether my work is interesting, reflective, horrible or even grammatically correct doesn’t matter; what’s important is my ability to reason through composition. I used to think that writing was an elite skill that only “literary scholars” could claim, but I have become less arrogant as I meet people who see script as a vehicle for release, a cathartic act of identification. To me, writing has become more than just a profession; it’s an essential component of my identity. And, to be honest, I think it’s a critical component of a lot of people. Think about how many things you write in a day: grocery list, Facebook status update (or five), emails, reminders on fluorescent Post-it Notes, text messages: writing is, for all of us, a way of communication.