Sometimes I think about why I write and how I came to love it. When I do, what comes to mind aren’t discernible patterns in a mountain of data, but rather a stream of ordinary moments, seemingly random and without explanation:
A memory of my parents playing cards late into the night with their best friends.
The day I saw the sun come out in Bandon.
Sitting around a campfire with four other teenage guys, talking late into the night about things so true they gave us goosebumps.
Late-night bus rides after an away game.
Learning to kiss.
Girls in sundresses. (I think we’d all be surprised by how much good writing has been inspired by sundresses.)
A walk in the rain in Omaha.
The first time I read Pablo Neruda.
The way Kate looked in her glasses the day we met.
Listening to Libby sing along with a Weepies album back when we all lived together in the apartment on Market Street.
All-night conversations that closed down waffle houses, coffee shops, and pubs.
The way my eldest daughter used to pronounce “helicopter” (hebider).
I’m not sure what these memories have in common, but I am grateful to the people who lived them with me.… Read the rest