Why Do I Write?

This is not only a question people ask me but also one I regularly ask myself.

You know how it happens. You’re lying in bed, trying to sleep, and your brain just wanders off into the deepest, darkest corners of your mind. Suddenly, you’re wondering about your life, about the choices you made, about why you picked the paths you did.

Books have always been a big part of my life. I can honestly say they saved me more than once. It all started with my mother, who loved naps. Every afternoon, she would lie down to rest, and I would curl up next to her. Before we fell asleep, we read together. She loved Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and John Grisham. She was the best customer at the bookstore in our small town, and they knew her well enough to call her the minute a new book by one of her favorite authors arrived. She could barely wait to get there. We even had a dedicated room in our house that was wall-to-wall books. She kept all her treasures and protected them jealously.

When I was very young, my mother read to me every day. These were the children’s books with moving parts, horses, princesses, castles, and all kinds of adventures. Those moments were special to me. Every single day, we would lie next to each other, and she would read until I drifted off to sleep.

When I was finally ready to read on my own, she made sure I had every book a young girl could dream of. Classics, popular books, and anything new that came out. School summer reading lists were never a problem for me. If anything, I always read more than what was required.

I'm reading Pinocchio in bed before my nap.

I started writing when I was still in elementary school. I even joined a few small competitions. The stories were whatever my imagination came up with at the time, and sometimes I wish I still had those early attempts. The more I read, the more I wanted to write. Reading constantly fed my imagination. Characters, adventures, unexpected twists; my mind was always creating something.

My relationship with books continued in university. Back then, my mother would send me whatever book she had just finished. As soon as the package arrived, I devoured it. I was a bit of a geek. While many of my classmates were out partying, I preferred curling up in my dorm bed with a book. Books took me to places I could never reach in real life. Other planets. Other centuries. Other worlds entirely.

And then my mom got cancer. For two years, we lived in and out of hospitals. If you have ever gone through something similar, you know how depressing hospital life can be. The food is never good. You sleep on a makeshift bed. There are always quiet sounds in the hallways; people crying, machines beeping, someone moaning in pain. Hospitals start their days early. Nurses and doctors begin their rounds as soon as the sun comes up, and the long day somehow feels like it ends before you are ready for it.

During that time, I hid myself in books. Inside books, nothing was broken beyond repair. In books, the superhero always saved the day. The couple found each other in the end. The lost pet always found its way home. Books became my sanctuary, my escape.

After my mother died, I spent two months almost entirely in bed. I buried myself in books and finished nearly one book a day. I slept, read, and barely ate. I was only twenty-one, and the loss hit me harder than I could have imagined.

Two years later, my father was diagnosed with cancer. This time, it moved fast. Only six months passed before cancer took him too. It was one of the most intense periods of my life. At twenty-three years old, I suddenly found myself responsible for making medical decisions, handling paperwork, and managing everything. One day, I was a carefree young woman just starting my career in publishing. The next day, I was sitting in another hospital room, living through my worst nightmare again.

That was the moment I grew up, whether I was ready or not. After my father died, I was completely crushed. I had no other family left. No siblings, no grandparents, no uncles or aunts. I felt alone, broken, and angry at the world.

Once again, books came to my rescue. I read everything I could get my hands on. But this time, something else happened, too. For the first time in my adult life, I started writing seriously. I poured my frustration, my anger, and my grief onto the page. Within a few months, I finished my first novel.

My work helped me as well. I was working in a small publishing house where I helped select books to publish. I also worked on translations, editing, and marketing. It truly felt like living inside a world of wonders.

These were the kinds of books I had dreamed about as a child. The catalogs from National Geographic, National Geographic Kids, Disney, Marvel, Star Wars, DK, and many others would land on my desk. My job was to go through them carefully and choose the best titles.

I traveled to London, Bologna, and Frankfurt book fairs. Imagine being surrounded by publishers and more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. I wanted all of them. Of course, budgets are always limited, so I spent long hours studying catalogs and thinking carefully about which titles to choose. I agonized over every book I had to let go.

Even after I eventually left publishing, I continued working with them as a freelance editor and translator. During that time, I wrote my first published series: the Space Series for National Geographic Kids Turkey. I could not have been prouder. They were round books with glow-in-the-dark covers, and I adored every single one of the twelve books in that series.

My space series from National Geographic Kids Turkey, with glow-in-the-dark covers.

And now I write my own books and publish them on Amazon. The only limits I have are my imagination and the hours in a day. I am proud of every title I write. These are the kinds of books I wish I had when I was a child. I try to create books that teach, guide, and encourage children to ask questions. Books that remind kids to stay curious and amazed by what our planet, our history, and our universe have to offer.

There are still many more books waiting to be born. I want to write about black holes. About our solar system. About the mysteries of our planet. About animals and adventures children will love discovering.

I know my story has had its share of dark twists and turns. But just like the hundreds of novels I grew up reading, I still believe in the possibility of a good ending. The kind where the hero saves the day, the girl and the guy find each other, and the lost pet finally finds its way home.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, a child picks up one of my books and discovers their own love of reading. That alone would make it all worth it.