Why do I write?

What’s in a story? Why does one read? And how does that eventually transmute itself into wanting to move beyond reading someone else’s stories and telling your own?

Keeping his head down, John crept slowly beside the house toward the open window. It wouldn’t do to be seen right now. If Ma saw him there’d be hell to pay and he’d be the one paying it. His ears still hurt from the boxing she’d given him earlier this morning. And that had just been for not moving fast enough. For deliberately disobeying her, he’d get a much harder whipping.

How does one come to feel for the people who infiltrate their way into one’s imagination? Who is “John”? Why did I think of him? How did I think of him? Do I care about him? Does his story matter?

“Mrs. Earl, you cannot home school John. You must have a valid graduation certificate of at least grade 12. You must submit a monthly report to the school board showing your curriculum and the results of John’s testing. We’ve told you this multiple times but you have yet to submit anything showing your qualifications or your adherence to the rules and regulations. This cannot continue!”

The man from the school board sure sounded angry, John thought. Bet Ma was gonna give it to him good. She hated being told what to do.

Sure enough, a steady stream of profanities erupted from John’s mother. Grinning, John hunched down on his haunches outside the window and listened. He could have told the people from the school board that today was not a good day to come by vexing Ma.

Da had been right smashed when he got home late last night and the fighting had begun almost as soon as he had staggered through the front door.

Ma had got in a few good yells and punches before Da had overcome her. The fighting and screaming had gone on for a good couple of hours. Finally, Da had lurched down the hall to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

What a story! Why write something like this? Do I care any more about this John than I did a few paragraphs ago? Is this a story anyone would want to read? Why am I even thinking about something like this? It’s not in my sphere of experiences (Thank God).

So, why is it in my head? And why do I want to see where it goes?

A few minutes later John watched the man and woman from the school board storm out of the house and across the lawn. As they made their way past the piles of broken and rusted car and tractor parts toward their nice, shiny car, now covered in dust from the unpaved Macon county road, the man muttered about rules, jurisdiction and - worst of all - the “law” who would be called immediately.

Yep, trouble was brewing.

Why write? Why create John?

The truth is, I'm not sure why I write. But John lives now and I must know his story.