Writers have written about why they write for as long as writers have written. I suppose that there is a long lost fragment written in Middle English on Parchment where Chaucer confesses that his apparent obsession with erotica was merely the honey dripped to attract flies to educate his masses.
As for me, my greedy heart yearns to make you bawl like a baby, cry and maybe cry out. Tears to be shed for the sheer beauty of the expressed thought, or the tragedy of
a human moment, or perhaps the joy of a love remembered or imagined. And if not one of those, perhaps tears from laughing too hard, with me if I am lucky.
But for now, I have enjoyed the journey and the prospect of the journey at the 6th Annual Yale Writers Conference. Steeped in the tradition of this remarkable institution the sessions and other participants have exceeded expectations. Every day brought rich new understandings of how words can be woven into magic spells.
Many have remarked that I am certifiable, and truly I have more certificates than I can keep track of. But this is the first specifically for writing in a genre that I have long wished for. The experience facilitated at Yale proved well worth my effort.