I sit on the back porch of my Kentucky home on a summer morning watching the sunlight burn off the smooth blanket of low-lying fog. Having left my girlfriend sleeping soundly, I have found this solitary time for chasing thought and imagination. The scent of honeysuckle hangs on the air as I pause, with pen in hand, to ponder an essay on why I write.

Behind me, along the eaves of my two-story Victorian home, mourning doves mumble and murmur like old friends excitedly sharing a secret. The arm of the metal lawn chair on which my left forearm rests is cool and wet with dew.

While staring at the blank notebook page I notice movement in the corner of my eye. I turn toward the open field adjoining my back yard, and my eyes focus on something breaking out of the dissipating fog. My jaw drops. A pure white 12-point buck steps into the clearing not 20 yards away.

I am frozen in awe. I do not move for fear the vision will fade, prove to be the product of an overactive imagination. I can feel my pulse in my throat.

Without warning the buck turns to me, his eyes locking onto mine. He has caught my scent. For a tick of time, something shoots between us, an electrified shot of fluctuating energy, an evaluation between animals, a deep search and quick understanding that we are the same and yet different.

The moment is lost as the buck flinches at something, some sound, real or imagined. With a snort, the apparition turns and disappears into the diminishing fog.

From inside my house, four Pomeranians begin barking. They scratch at the back storm door. I soon discover the reason for their behavior. The hood of the green vehicle is just visible as it pulls into the driveway beside my home.

I put my notebook and pen down on the patio table as a short horn blast echoes across the still countryside. I round the corner of my house to find my friend Scott, a surprise since he lives in Chicago and has been in Europe for the past month.

"Long time," he says, stepping out of his SUV. "You didn’t forget me, did you?"

Scott has always joked that I would forget all my friends once I became a best-selling author. When my novel made it onto The New York Times Bestsellers list last year, he called every day for two weeks to ask that question.

"Hey, buddy," I shout, grinning and pulling him into a quick hug. "You know I don’t forget my friends. In fact, I thought you’d forgotten us. You’re the one who scored that cushy record producing job."

Scott just smiles. He looks happy.

Macbeth, Nanook, Iago and Raven have stopped barking, and I hear the back door click open. A black blur of Pomeranian fur jumps up at Scott and me, demanding attention. When they are satisfied, they run the length of my back yard, chasing each other and bounding over the wet grass.

Scott and I have just reached the back porch when Rebecca sees us. She has just stepped outside. Letting out a squeal of joy, Rebecca runs and hugs Scott.

"I’ve missed you," Rebecca tells him. "You’re not allowed to leave the country anymore, even if you are recruiting bands from Europe."

We all chatter away, seating ourselves on the patio chairs. The fog is nearly gone. The air is warm but not humid. The dogs trot in the yard to join us. They stretch out on the porch, except for Raven who plays in the grass nearby.

Rebecca steps into the house to answer the phone. At the same time, I am suddenly aware my watch alarm is chiming.

"Come on inside," I tell Scott, ushering him into the house. "My friend Wes is going to be on television. He’s part of the crew going up today on the Infinity shuttle mission."

We have just started watching television when Rebecca enters the living room to tell me it was our friend Jamie who called with good news. After years with the Kentucky Education Association, Jamie has been appointed education advisor to the Governor.

Rebecca, Scott and I watch the broadcast featuring Wes and the shuttle crew. For half an hour—between Wes’s on-air interviews—I tell Scott about Wes’s work as a microbiologist and his affinity for the space program.

The doorbell rings with perfect timing. The broadcast goes into a segment on space exploration.

Mom and Dad smile at me when I open the door. They are wearing jogging sweats, having, no doubt, stopped on their way back from their morning walk. Mom is wearing a vinyl knapsack. They live half a mile down the road.

"We just wanted to stop by and have you sign these," Mom says, pulling the knapsack off her back and producing three copies of my novel.

I invite them inside, but they cannot stay. They offer salutations to Scott and Rebecca then explain the books belong to friends who asked them for my autograph.

"We’re proud of you," Dad says, as I sign the books.

Pride swells up in my throat. I am almost not aware of the strange beeping, until someone bumps into me from behind.

It is the nurse. The beeping is the metal infusion machine announcing the Ethyol treatment is complete.

I am not in a Victorian house. I am not autographing my best-selling novel. I am writing an essay while sitting in a hospital watching my mother get the first of a weekly series of treatments for Myelodysplastic Syndrome. She has been coming to this hospital since the last part of 2000, receiving blood and platelet infusions. But those are no longer sustaining her health, and she agreed to this additional treatment. She cannot walk long distances. She tires too quickly due to her condition.

Two of my Pomeranians—Iago and Raven—died in 1992 and 2000 respectively. Raven had a heart problem. Scott—who used to deejay at nightclubs and loved music—died of cancer more than 10 years ago. Jamie worked for KEA’s communication department. Cancer took her a few years ago. And Wes, a highway engineer fascinated with science and space, died several years ago from complications resulting from meningitis.

The Victorian house is a dream home. I am a writer but not a best-selling novelist yet. I’ve never seen a white buck.

When I write creative non-fiction, I can use devices to underscore a point, as was my intent in this essay. Or I can write fiction, creating stories purely from my imagination. Either way, writing both captures and releases things. Life can be enhanced. Death and disease can be banished. Everything can be beautiful in this other world if only for a brief time.

This is the attraction to writing. This is its joy. This is its heartache.

This, as much as anything, is why I write.