I recall the thrill of walking on the beach in Israel. I was no older than four, kicking sand, when I found an ancient Roman coin.
The coin was brown with tarnish and had uneven edges. For a second I thought it was a pebble. But a closer look showed letters, and the head profile of some guy. The coin didn’t look like a treasure.
The thrill I felt was a realization that someone, a real Roman person, had been there.
Writers write for the same reasons artists create. We write because we have something to say, or we want to say something even when we don’t know what, and because we want to leave something behind. Something that says I was here.