I write because at the front of Room 214, Mr Waldron had a poster of “The Road Not Taken," complete with bare brown tree and forked black path.

I write because I needed to fill up the time in study hall and didn't feel like studying.

I write because of Don McLean, The Looking Glass, America, Lennon & McCartney.

I write because what else was an only child to do who couldn't throw a football or shoot baskets or hit home runs or score goals?

I write because of Erin, sage therapist, and Reverend Peggy, wise guide of the spirit.

I write because of autumn in New England. Because of tired faces on the Red Line.

I write because of black coffee and Dylan Thomas.

I write because Brother Pat Logan played "Let It Be" on his guitar in the Salesian Boys Club chapel.

I write because of Hart Crane, because of mountains, because of cold showers and ambidextrous crushes.

I write because of Saint Lucie’s Day, the yeares mid-night.

I write because of Wishes, Lies, and Dreams. Because of Seamus Heaney and Juan de la Cruz.

I write because Tracy Chapman smote my heart at first sight. I write because Cardinal Bergoglio became Pope Francis.

I write because the streetwise Eastie kids called me maggot, wimp, pussy, queer.

I write because of insomnia and even more black coffee. I write to praise the immortal Wystan Auden.

I write for the woman who looked at me funny when I said I wasn’t married.

I write because Dr Macmillan made me better, Dr Naidoo made me worse.

I write because E E Cummings grew up in Cambridge. Because Uta Pippig won the Boston Marathon.

I write: Simple Minds, the Smiths, New Order, Depeche Mode, the Cure, the Fixx, the Jam, the Call, the Clash, the Fall, Dexys Midnight Runners, A Flock of Seagulls.

I write because nobody's stopped me yet.