I first fell in love with story’s ability to transport, to expand the borders of my reality. I recall crouching beneath my parents’ kitchen counter as a child, losing Sunday afternoons reading. That words printed between book covers could take me to far off worlds, on journeys that left me forever changed, was, to me, nothing short of magic. I also sensed perfection in the economy of these world-altering journeys; their being beautifully bound to fit in my palms. Later, I came to understand that great literature does not simply transport, but that it also helps me understand myself, and that—at its best—it helps me to better articulate my experiences and helps me further understand those of others.
I write in order to think through problems and to attempt to make sense of the world. I write to remember, and to affirm my worldview. There are experiences that I’ve lived through that I’ve yet to see represented or explored in literature, and I write those stories for anyone with similar experiences who might mistake these omissions as an invalidation of their lives. There’s no more worthy way that I could spend my time.