I needn’t come to terms with why I do the things that I do. I know what I’m doing. I am comfortable with it. What is intuitive to one may seem a compulsory act by another. Who is to say what makes up the intellectual interests of one mind over another, what fills the heart of one than another… to another? This is not for me to say of others nor should it be the mission of others to say of me. At this moment I am sitting in a cafe in the Oak Park neighborhood of Sacramento hunched over my computer, double mocha half reach to my right, doing what I love… I am writing. Surrounded by like-minded souls in a cafe of an eerily similar name we gather each week for the same purpose. Seeking, striving to attain the same goal which is not really a goal at all, per se… more a need. For some of us, perhaps an obsession. An obsession to write. The product of my efforts, or hers; his; theirs, are unimportant to you. They are all important to me… to us. I write for the pure joy that the creation of life on the page gives me. I write for the sake of dropping a dime on that little voice in my head that tells me that I have no time. I have no desire. I have no-thing to write. To this voice I say nothing. I pay it no heed, give it no power whatsoever as it has no power unless I empower it.
This is what we do. This is who we are. We are writers. Ghostly images reflecting in a cafe window, the diminished opacity of our true selves seemingly negating our very existence… still… we write. – JLJ