I love to write. Not with the same skill as Shakespeare or Silverstein, but talented enough to have the spark to form intriguing columns of text. Something to be proud of, but at my age, not something that would be on the shelves.
All my writing has been fiction. Fairies, magic, and the deep depths of an oceanic forgotten city. Even the non-fiction pieces I accumulate have words that are sewn together like flowing water. The streams ebbing softly as they form poetry.
My whole life I’ve been imagining. I have grown trees and built homes with the simple stroke of a pen. I have destroyed lives and made new ones with my fingertips. I have conjured worlds, and then some, all with wit and word. It is exhilarating to the point of chills, the icicles melting just as fast as they solidify.
I hope to have my titles lining book shops and online stores one day. I hope to write something that won’t be forgotten. That is powerful and romantic. That is action-packed and terrifying. I hope to make people smile as they flip from page to page whether it be tangible or digital. And when it happens, even if years from now, I hope above all I am proud of the product that comes out of it.