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Why do I write? (from my archives) To pretend I don’t live in a world where bad things have happened to me, or to those I care about. People who know me often tell me they wish they were as strong as I am. I write, though, because I’m not strong enough to live in this world all the time. Writing offers me a way to escape temporarily, to live in a world where I’ve never lost someone who meant the world to me, where the horrible things that happened to my loved ones never happened, where I have always been treated with love and respect, and where I didn’t almost die at the metaphorical hands of my worst fear. I write to reach out, to explore, and to escape. I write not just to pretend other worlds exist, but to pretend that this one doesn’t. I love my life as it is now, but I traveled a long, hard road to get here. And sometimes, I like to pretend I took a different path. Writing allows me to be someone else entirely, a writer only and nothing more, for a brief moment of respite. It took me a while to see it, but that’s why I write.
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