A Writer MUST Write

It’s an odd feeling. But the truth of the occupation is: A writer must write. He (in my case) is drawn to the words, drawn to any instrument that will help them escape. And to the readers, who might breathe life into the characters who say and feel the words.
He is meticulous. He worries over the tiniest things that readers, more often than not, will overlook, if they’re enjoying a story. Does that comma belong there? Do I really want my character to say that? Does that piece of dialogue ring true?
For me, without my computer (I need the keyboard, too, the tactile experience it allows), my words would stay trapped up in my head forever, and I might very well go insane. I need this outlet, readers. I need to be read, or heard, or however you want to take in the words.
I know how lucky I am. First, that I was born and live in a great country that affords so much opportunity. Second, that I was born into a family that always encouraged creativity and expression, in whatever medium we saw fit. Third, that my physical challenges still allow me to be me. They don’t get in the way of that. And fourth, and last but not least, look at the era in which we live. If I had been born twenty years earlier than I was, my chances of knowing consciousness would not be good. The thing I live with daily–it’s an inconvenience–would have been the thing that took my life at its start.
When you look at life that way, you tend to feel things deeply. So when I hear of yet another shooting–this one near where I live–and that a life has been lost needlessly, I think, What would that person have contributed to the world that, now, they won’t?
I know how lucky I am.
But do we, as a whole, know how lucky we are, to be alive, to get to be writers or scientists or nurses or singers or actors?
A writer must write. There, I wrote something. I hope it makes you think.