I have been writing, more or less, all my life, mostly in private, and more poorly than well. Somewhere within the woven canvas of my mind, writing has always been what I loved to do since childhood.
I remember being praised for my work and invited to read my stories aloud to the class. My English teachers kept my short pieces as samples for future students, a faint glow of recognition.
Along the way, I got distracted and didn’t pursue this love. Instead, I wandered through life, jumping from one job to another. I forgot how to write beyond waffling text messages, mediocre social media captions, and epic emails that went nowhere. Despite countless observations and stories in my head pleading to be drafted, I couldn’t do it. It felt like work, and it was hard. I didn’t like hard.
Yet, the joy of writing never really waned. The urge to string words together and unfold a story in my mind for the simple pleasure of creating something from nothing is still burning. Using my words to reach out, connect, and spark another person’s curiosity is what I love most about writing.
