This question goes around occassionally on social media: Who or what hurt you so bad that you became a writer?

The question is generally meant in jest because a lot of writers do carry a lot of baggage, but I prefer to believe I chose to be a writer rather than that I was traumatized into it.

This question relates to the stereotype of artists being different, eccentric, and/or a little crazy. On one hand, it’s totally true, maybe because of the trauma. Writing is a form of escapism, both for us writers and for our readers. Being labeled as crazy also allows more artistic license and identity expression with the justification of: if I’m already bonkers, it doesn’t matter what I say, do, or believe, right? That combined with the constant critique we get from haters who don’t think our art is as valuable as we do might also make us a bit unhinged.

My situation is a little different: First, the trauma I have experienced seems comparitively minimal to what I’ve seen vicariously; Second, while I’ve always liked the aesthetic of being ‘crazy’, my little anxious heart (and probably being on the spectrum) takes great comfort in consistency, rules, and structure.

That said, I have been drafting stories since before I could write.

One day at age 4.5 my mother helped me put my words to paper and laminated a series of drawings. It was called, “The Man Who Loved to Sing Praises to the Lord.” (If you follow my Instagram, I’ll be positing a reading of this soon.) Now even though my themes and topics have changed significantly, it is my first reminder than I have always loved being a storyteller.

Being surrounded by people who appreciated stories has also encouraged me to write. Growing up, my parents read us bedtime stories. Early on, these included short silly stories like The Complete Adventures of Curious George. Then they read us short myths and legends like the Paul Bunyan and Other Tall Tales. And finally we read the entire Chronicles of Narnia.

Then at the end of 4th grade, I had an art teacher who helped us write and illustrate our own story. “The Snail’s Tree” is a page or two longer than my previous work, but it is one I still enjoy to this day. I loved the process of seeing something I created turned into something semi-permanent.

Since then, I’ve written stories for my siblings’ birthdays by turning them into superheroes, and I’ve written some really terrible Lord of the Rings fan fiction. This evolved into writing whole novels before I was out of high school thanks to NaNoWriMo, but it was not until college that I really started to consider this question:

Why do I write?

One day in Intro to Creative Writing, we were discussing a short story — probably something like James Joyce’s Araby. I made a comment about liking it because the ending gave hope for character growth, and my professor turned to me and said accusingly, “Oh, you’re a hope guy.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to deny it. I wanted to be edgy and cool, and something like hope doesn’t sound that entertaining. But I’ve really embraced that as I’ve aged. Especially as a teacher at a high poverty school, I’ve realized there are enough depressing and discouraging stories in real life.

Hope is what gets us through the day.

Not all my stories are full of hope because I also like stories that are thoughtful and mirror reality. But even in reality, it’s important to find joy in the little things, even if that little thing is reflecting on a stupid mistake that made you or others miserable.

In the end, it’s quite simple: I chose writing because I want to make people stop to think or to smile.

Why do you write?