Why do we write, anyway?

I've been a writer for as long as I can remember.

When I was a kid, my favorite things in the world (apart from little decorative boxes, wood or decoupage or glass or, really, any kind of adorable little box) were journals. I loved hardcover journals specifically, with pretty flower prints on them, or butterflies, or—my personal favorites—the ones that had a full image wrap of a high-quality scan of a rock or mineral. I'm pretty sure I had a malachite one and an amethyst one at some point, and in them, I poured out all of my wild ideas for other worlds and fantasy adventures. 

They were probably intended to be used for daily journaling, which, no insult intended on those who love to journal, my brain was just way too scattered to sit down and focus on making that a daily habit. 

Dear Diary, I would start: Today in health class, we learned about cow corneas, and—what if there was a world, like, an island kingdom, where the currency was baked beans, and each different island magically had the power to turn into animals, but only during the full moon, and only the last-born daughter of every house... 

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