I’ve been thinking a lot the last two days about writing — why I write and how I came to love it. What has come to mind aren’t discernible patterns in a mountain of data, but rather a stream of ordinary moments, seemingly random and without explanation: a memory of my parents playing cards with their best friends; the day I saw the sun come out in Bandon; sitting around a campfire with four other teenage guys, talking late into the night about things so true they gave us goosebumps; late-night bus rides after an away game; learning to kiss; girls in sundresses (I think we’d all be surprised by how much good writing has been inspired by sundresses); a walk in the rain in Omaha; the first time I read Pablo Neruda; the way Kate looked in her glasses the day we met; listening to Libby sing along with a Weepies album back when we all lived together in the apartment on Market Street; all-night conversations that closed down waffle houses, coffee shops, and pubs; and the way my daughter used to pronounce “helicopter” (hebider). I’m not sure what these memories have in common, but I feel grateful to the people who lived them with me. You seem to have inspired my writing.
How I Came to Love Writing