Columns by B. H. Fairchild

Why I Write

4.06.09

Difficult to know why one writes.  More difficult to know why one writes poems, especially with a background such as mine—machine shops, oil fields, small-town Kansas—where boys did not grow up to write poems.  There is such a thing as falling in love with language, which happened to me as a child without my being aware of it, and this leads to a reading or a writing life and often both.  There is also the endless work/eat/sleep routine of blue-collar life, which can make one search for some point to it all and then eventually to locate it in literature, where life always comes to a point.

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