"Why do you write?"

I have literally been asked this question dozens of times. At the top of scholarship entry forms, and writing contests, by curious readers, but most often, by writing teachers.
Although I usually base my answer around a little story about my dad reciting poetry to me, that is not true. There is a much simpler answer, and for some reason I assumed that everyone who writes wrote for the same reason as I.
Yesterday, in my Writing Literature for Children and Adolescents class, my teacher posed the question to the group of us, gave us a minute to respond and then asked us.

girl 1 said: I love stories, I love hearing them, and creating them. I love how they change us after we know them.

boy 1 said: I can't find my purpose in life. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing, and every time I sit down and write, I feel like I'm closer to getting an answer.

girl 2 said: Everything I write is therapeutic in some way. I have a deep emotional connection to each of my characters and story lines.

girl 3 said: I just want to be published. I'm writing so I can see my name in print.
(her name is marissa. she is stupid.)

girl 4 was named becky. this is what she wrote: I love words. Words have power. I want to change the world, I want to help people. I want to make people laugh or smile forever, even after I'm gone. I want to help them understand each other, even if just for a minute. I want to make a difference, and an impact and words are the strongest instrument I could have.

If you read my other blog, the one that only Brooke, Kaylie, and my Grandma read, then you probably already know.
If the house is burning down around my ears, I'm going to stop and save my words before I leave.