That is fairly easy; because I love it. I adore it.

I love my idea of “a writer’s life”, the expression of looking at the far horizons, but really looking into the depth of thoughts, the time at nights that is so sacred in the company of only a pen and papers or the fingertips on a keyboard. Mentally going after each word tying them together, then breaking tie and trying again.
All work to get the desired combination of words.
Ah. Words.
I love how they pull me out of bed after many failed attempts to sleep in order to write. I love the texture of the paper, light, crisp and soft and how it smells. As if something important is about to be written.
Because something always is.
I trace down their ancient history and praise their contribution in making us what we are today.
I even love when a sentence or a whole paragraph look all wrong. My annoyed tongue-click comes followed by the bored motion of scratching out the part I don’t like.
Sometimes it is a single line across, in case I was struck by a change of heart. Sometimes, I find peculiar pleasure in obliterating every last bit of it.
I love how it is always on my mind, an endless string of thoughts describing things. A scene, a time, a feeling, listening to my own my as it carefully plots down the words, without a pause, so good. Fit for a novel.
And I love how they seem to preserve a certain state of mind, express a thought or a stray memory.
I smile at the edge of impatience in them to be written.

My own time is when I am writing all alone, the house dormant around me. The dawn is changing colors outside my window. The Early Risers squeaking the songs of the morn. A single cry of a crow. A low thrumming of a distant motor. But here, inside my room, the silence is so complete it drowns the persistent ticks of the clock. Lifting the pen off the lined page, and listening. To the external sounds and my brainstorming arranging and rearranging the words.
Ah, how I love words.
This relationship is a complex. At times we are gliding along just fine. My ink is generous, the words are satisfyingly cooperative. We are both very happy with this private companionship.
But at times they are crazed. They elude me. They lure me out, knowing that I’d wholeheartedly take the bait, and when I am there at my desk where they want me, they go play hide-and-seek.
Heartless, overpowering little cowards!
I find myself short of breath, short of patience in that pursuit.
When I want a spot of peace or looking to get some sleep…
It’s painful. It’s beautiful. Either way, I love it.
And there is really no one true why to that.
It happens in a moment. It takes you by surprise. And there is no escape.

I know I will never stop, I know this fascination is eternal. In every sentence I like in a book and underline… in everything these glorious words project into my head…
The images… the ideas…
A creation… An end…
A laughter… A tear…
A mockery or a sense of honor…

This is the sum of my secret life with words.
It is a story of adoration that has no end. 



A marriage is a long story to tell. It’s a continuum with moments of drama, periods of stupefying boredom. Passages of tremendous hope. One can never tell the story of a marriage. There’s no narrative that encompasses it. Even a daily diary wouldn’t tell you what you want to know. Who thought what when. Who had what dreams. At the very least, a marriage is two intersecting stories, one of which we will never know.

A Weeding in December. Anita Shreve.