I don’t know the beginning of my desire to learn narrative form and to see myself as a writer, but I can tell you the day I put it into action.

My last class at Evergreen State College. I approached a professor about sponsoring an independent contract for me. He was intrigued with my idea, said he didn’t know how to teach writing but that he’d read and respond honestly to anything I wanted to show him. The challenges in the actual writing have been many—most are self-imposed. I am a neurotic and picky writer. It takes me a long time to feel good about a piece. I do not like to gloss over a topic, nor do I like to write long form. I wait until I have enough time to write, whatever that means, and get another pile of ideas, and wait for more time to write. And then there is technique. I fancy myself a pretty good writer, or at least I believe people when they react in such a way to something I share. That said, grad school taught me to look for sloppiness at the sentence level, to include story magic alongside big ideas, to get specific with vocabulary. One workshop facilitator in commented that I structure writing like a photographer composes a print—that is a concept I can work with. And on days I’d rather be walking a tree-lined stream, I hear my dad’s voice in my mind, “Finish what you start, kid.”

Why write? The notion that each person’s voice should be heard and that each person’s story matters. This is art and ambition rolled into one. The belief that each one of us is obligated, with our lives, to make a contribution for the greater good.