My love affair with language began extremely early on in my life.

I was exposed to writing as a profession at birth. My great-grandfather had been a prolific writer in the 1940s and this fact was always touted in my family. He gained significant fame after publishing a book called Rhubarb about a cat that inherits a baseball team. The book was later adapted to a film.

From early on I wanted to be a writer. I loved my English classes in elementary school and found great pleasure in writing short stories and scribbling away in my journal. I also read a seemingly impossible number of books as a small child, so many that I would literally stay home sick from school so I could read books. In retrospect my love for reading was probably serving as a coping mechanism for my mom’s addiction problems and my parents’ divorce, but we’ll let sleeping dogs lie.

8Me and my brother in 1999. Charlie ended up getting all the looks.

But I wanted to be a writer. There was something so flashing and exciting about it and I loved the idea of being a grown up and saying “oh yes, I’m a writer” at dinner parties and other events that adults attended. However, as I started getting older that desire was stamped out of me as my underfunded public school system failed to produce adequate creative outlets and my writing turned solely analytical. I still appreciated the act of writing, but my passion for it was lost by the time puberty hit and I had more important things to worry about (like boys and doing a terrible job of putting on makeup).

It wasn’t until recently that I have come back to the idea of writing as a career, notably since I met my current boyfriend. Wolf, a motion animator and creative genius, has been foundational in my embracement of writing as an art and a career path and has given me a lot of confidence in chasing a dream. On a recent trip with him, I had an epiphany that every job I’ve been interested in since high school as well as both of my on-campus jobs have been extremely writing-intensive, and I thought: why not make it something someone will pay me to do?

So here I am, working hard to make the bacon, spending my days on the internet erecting the scaffolding around the dream that I am beginning to make into a reality. It’s proving to be a ton of work but it’s work that I enjoy: I get to talk to people all day on the internet, travel from my armchair, learn a hell of a lot, and write every single day. And I’m happy with my new mobility, my newfound ambition, and my new life.