I write. It’s an impulse born from the need to escape overwhelming sorrow, but it’s become much more. Writing expresses my rage at the gap between what the world is and what it should be, at the short-sighted selfishness that kneecaps even the most determined attempts at beauty. I hold up love, honor, courage, and fidelity as banners, daring others to call them fairy tales. And I desperately hope it’s enough to justify my place on an increasingly crowded planet.

I love waking up. I even stay up late and take naps when I can, so I can do it twice. For that perfect moment, everything is clear. Fresh from being cradled in the arms of God, my thoughts are briefly transcendent. At that moment, I feel like I can write everything. A few paragraphs will send me leaping over the Misty Mountains of my desire, and this time, I…