When I was in high school, I was the first one on and the last one off the bus. I spent nearly three hours a day on the bus before the invention of smart phones! When we could, we shared a set of earphones and a Walkman to listen to music, but more often than not, the batteries would die leaving us to find other ways to entertain ourselves. Naps were a challenge on the rough riding school bus, and there was always some punk, tough guy with nothing better to do than pick on an underclassman that isn’t paying attention to themselves. Being forced to stay conscience pretty much left homework, reading, or writing to occupy my time.
Most of the time, I finished my homework. I read almost every astronomy book the school had in the library. I read every Larry Niven book that I could get my hands on, and I read The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings for the first time on those long bus rides. Reading offered me a way of escape. I was able to leave it all behind and live a new life for a time thanks to those books and authors.
For a time, I wrote Star Trek parodies on a small, spiral notepad. They were short, quirky, and borderline obscene. I would let my small circle of friends read these and eagerly wait to see their expressions change as they reached twisted or funny scenes in my writing.
At home, I used my Commodore C16 to write ‘choose your own adventure’ stories in Basic, and I saved them to the cassette drive. Yes, just writing the previous sentence makes me feel very old. I would share these with family and friends, and once again, I watched for their reactions as they chose a path that lead to certain death and dismemberment.
So, why do I write? The answer is simple. I like to share, and I enjoy knowing that someone’s emotions were stirred by something I created. If something I write causes you laugh, cry, or cock your head and wonder, what is wrong with him? I would love to know about it; it is why I write.