why do i write?

            well, the list is long and in no discernible order. but i’ll start with the fact that writing brings me an inordinate, unnecessary amount of pleasure and joy. pleasure in every common and rarefied sense: it is a gustatory enjoyment, both cerebral and base, and as indecent as any other imaginable sin. words are like ingredients to me, or musical notes played in the scale only allowed in religious fantasies. learning new words feels like a treat i have not earned in any way, but have been given regardless. playing with words is as furtive and frenzied as all the great pleasures of the world. writing is an act of creation that never stops feeling blasphemous; it is every bit as divine as a mutiny.