Okay, I’m going to do something I never do when I write: set off without a firm end in sight. Actually, I never do it in life, either. There’s a time and place for spontaneity, you know what I’m saying? So why am I acting so rashly? Especially when the subject at hand is “Why I Write?”
Because I don’t know why I write. I really don’t. At least, I don’t know why I started. I have no entertaining stories, no particular moments in my childhood that upon reflection are clear signposts that lead the way to being the Showrunner on Eureka. I mean, I liked TV. Everyone did. But I didn’t head off to college with a burning desire to see my words on screen.
I did have an appreciation for story, though. I had that. Instilled by my dad, an eminent history professor and author. He read to me a lot, and not just Babar. I’m talking Horatio at the Gate. I grew up liking things that had something exciting going on between their beginning and their end. To this day we still read to our kids - and they’re 14 and 17, so I guess the story thing sank in.
Eventually, I went to college, and made a little movie, and went to graduate school, and made another little movie, and found myself making informational films for the Department of Defense. At that point I came to a big decision: I did not want to make informational films for the Department of Defense.
So I wrote a script. Why? Why did I write?



