One of the reasons that I write

When I was a freshman and first declared my majors (Mass Communication and Creative Writing), I don’t think I fully understood what they meant to me. Probably because they didn’t mean much to me. For the past three years of college (how did that happen?), I’ve been learning how writing isn’t something disposable to me. This dedication in the front of John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden,” drives me to create stories more than ever before:
“Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, “Why don’t you make something for me?”
I asked you what you wanted, and you said, “A box.”
“What for?”
“To put things in.”
“What kind of things?”
“Whatever you have,” you said.
Well, here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts- the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.
-John”

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