Why I Write

I was walking my son home from school. He was about nine years old at the time. We passed by a freestanding kiosk that contained brocures from Gotham Writers Workshop. I grabbed a brocheure and we continued on our way.

"What's that?" my son asked.

"It's a brochure for writing classes."

"Why did you take one?"

"Because I'm thinking of taking a class."

"Why would anyone choose to take a class that didn't have to take one?"

I considered going into all the details. As much as I loved the luxury of not having to work, and being able to spend so much time with him, I felt as if my brain was turning into the consistency of overcooked oatmeal. I was trying to figure out some way of proving to myself that my gray matter was still a working organ.

"I always enjoyed writing when I went to school," I told him instead. "I thought it might be fun."

We arrived home where I stuck the brochure in a pile somewhere and completely forgot about it, perhaps out of fear that my creativity had disappeared right along with my pre-child freedom.

Several months later, while sipping coffee and watching my son joyously open his gifts on Christmas morning, he handed me a gift from him. It was a flat package. I opened it to find a Gotham writers Workshop brochure with a note enclosed; Pick out any class. Love Adam.

Not only did I find it incredibly sweet that he had remembered, but now I was forced to take a writing workshop. I didn't want to let him down.

Was it scary taking a writing class for the first time in a million years? Absolutely!
Did I love it? Definitely.

That first class was five years ago. I've taken many more since then.
I recently completed my first 277 page novel.
Was that writing class the best gift I've ever received? Aside from my son Adam, positively.