I have always had a fascination with words. The way that black lines on a white page can become vivid and colorful images in the mind. The idea that I can paint pictures and create art for people to enjoy even though I never have been all that great at drawing or painting. My canvas is a computer screen and my paintbrush the keyboard. Language has given me the opportunity to be an artist, whether or not I am tortured is debatable. Being able to make people have feelings and broaden their perspectives by stringing words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs. Reactions born out of the things that I have said and thought.

In my life a love of the written word is the only thing that has ever remained constant. Like any other human being on the planet, I went through my fair share of phases. Tomboy, Emo, or Raging Feminist, I always wanted to devour book after book. And no matter which school I moved to, the library was always my favorite place. My closest companions lay on shelves and contained stories of anywhere but where I was, with characters who made me feel less painfully alone. My favorite books showing signs of great wear and marking. Water marks from where my tears have stained the page, broken spines from laying on my chest after I fell asleep reading, dog-eared pages when I forgot my bookmarks, and so on. A true testament to how well they have been loved and appreciated.

It was the desire to create this sensation for someone else that made me so inclined to want to pursue this as a career. Inspired by the works of those who push boundaries and rethink social norms just by writing their stories a little bit differently. People who test the powers of love and friendship to create the greatest stories the world has ever read. To date, working in publishing is the only thing I have ever heard or thought of that seems wonderful enough to be able to do for the rest of my life. Knowing that if I put together the right words- or fix someone else’s as an editor- that I will be able to do for another person what has been done for me for years. A feeling of kinship with no present company. An introvert’s dream.

I want to one day have a hand in creating something that touches someone so deeply they keep it on their shelf for years. Their tear marks stain the pages, the spine is broken from all times they have fallen asleep reading and it lay open on their chest, and they proudly proclaim it is their favorite book to any person who is willing to listen. A young preteen who feels lost and alone in a world much larger than they are, can open its covers and find solace between them. I want to give people new ideas about what the world is capable of being. For them and for everyone else. I want to be a writer because I want to inspire, and return the favor of all the writers who have inspired me.