When my dad was in the process of writing his first book, I’d see him working at it every single day, even if just for a few minutes. He’d sit there in his robe with his coffee before heading off to work, adding some small tidbit to his story. That’s cool, I’d think, but my muse doesn’t work like that.

As a writer, I sometimes fall into the temptation to think that my stories don’t matter; that they’re somehow a lesser hobby that can never compare to the important deeds done by others in more sophisticated careers paths. Every time this happens, however, I come back to the same realization: we need stories.