Real writers don’t make excuses.

People have told me I have a lot of ‘life’ excuses to not write.  I have a beautiful wife.  I have two wondrous kids, one of whom has autism.  I enjoy time with friends and family.  I work.  I have a mortgage.  I am the ultimate armchair sports fan.  I never turn down a beer.  I have an unhealthy fondness for karaoke.

I also have more than my fair share of ‘credibility’ excuses to not write.  No formal study of literature.  No writing courses undertaken.  Only a handful of the ‘classics’ ever read.  My first collection of stories never made it beyond a longhand manuscript.  My first novel was a painful learn-on-the-job.  My subsequent works – even those those that achieved acclaim – have been rejected most every way possible; I would guesstimate 500 times,  and counting.  Oh, and I was a PE teacher for thirteen years.

There are lots of excuses why I shouldn’t write.  But a thousand excuses are no match for the single, bona fide reason I should:

It’s what I do.