Chad W. Lutz

As a writer myself, I used to never think about why I wrote. I just did. It came from some underlying desire to capture each moment in time, as if I might forget it the next. Like a lucid dream that you wake up from, but forget almost instantly. That’s actually what drove me to write the first thing I ever called, “a story of my own.” In first grade, I awoke one morning after having a dream, but I couldn’t shake it. It wasn’t a bad dream, and I don’t remember it being the dream to end all dreams, but I do remember not being able to shake the images. I can actually still recall the glowing door at the bottom of my basement stairs that had magically appeared out of nowhere. No handle; just a pulsating portal of light and energy. And once we stepped through the gateway, were instantly whisked off to a distant, prehistoric jungle land where we all turned into 90’s pop culture superheroes and took on the world’s evil.

But when I awoke, I knew I had to do something about it. I knew there was some course of action that I needed to execute, otherwise something, that at the time I felt held some grave cosmic importance, would silently slip through the cracks and be lost forever in the gutters of my mind. It seems as though preservation was in mind. And I think that may be one of the biggest driving factors in a writer’s life; to preserve that which is unsustainable.

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