Writing can be hard. That’s something everyone knows, and no one tells you. Yet we chose to do it every day, or every other day. Some of us only write on the weekends, when our day jobs don’t get in the way of our words. But we all still put those words down. Whether it be pen to paper, typing on a typewriter, or a laptop, we get those words out.

We write stories and poems, sometimes songs. We write for lovers and friends, children and adults. We write for ourselves. I know I write to get through my traumas and grief. To celebrate the small things with everyone, to share my joys. Even when no one reads my words, I write.

We, as writers, continue to press forward with our art, knowing the struggles that we face. We rally around one another, build each other up, and cheer each other on. Especially in these times where AI seems to be ever prevalent in our circle. We charge harder against the beast to prove there is nothing better than the hand-written word.

We are writers. We know this is hard, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.