About Me — Nico Sakaki
I’m new here. Please be gentle with me.
The Short (Professional) Version (which I imagine being written as the bio for my first published novel)
Nico Sakaki is an author and [another cool profession]. Originally from Richmond, British Columbia, Nico now resides in [Name of Place] with their husband and two cats in an abandoned firehouse. (I recently rewatched The Princess Diaries.)[Name of Book] is their first novel.
The Less Fun But Actually True Version
Nico Sakaki is a writer and aspiring novelist. They grew up in Richmond, BC, where they majored in English Literature at the University of British Columbia, and currently live in Montreal, Quebec with their husband and cat. You can find their writing on Medium.com, where they write about mental illness and other fun things.
The Even More Truthful Version
Nico Sakaki is a writer, even though they haven’t written a whole lot. Luckily, they have been more compelled to write lately as it helps them cope with the overwhelming experience of being a person. They graduated with a B.A. in English Literature at UBC a few years ago and even though they learned a lot of cool stuff, sometimes wish that they had majored or at least minored in something more practical, like computer science. (They tried to learn how to code on their own once but it was too hard). They tend to think best when they’re doing a jigsaw puzzle or pacing around the house. They live in Montreal with their husband and cat, and yes, they are one of those people who considers their cat their child.
Are We Friends Now?
Hi, I’m Nico and my pronouns are they/them. I’m queer, neurodivergent, and mentally ill. Among other things, I love sparkly eyeshadow, purple pens, Autumn, and the Lord of the Rings. Sometimes I go overboard with my metaphors.
I was always a big reader as a kid, and although I do remember writing a short story about the Easter Bunny when I was in grade one (it was awesome), it wasn’t until grade seven that I fell in love with writing and decided that I would be an author one day. Then I realized how hard writing was and became plagued by perfectionism and the overwhelming desire to write wonderful things. Looking back, I think part of it was that writing was the only thing I thought I was good at. As a shy kid who always had trouble knowing what to say, discovering my love for writing was like discovering a fantasy world. One where I could be loud and reckless and brave. I loved it so much that I was terrified of ruining it. I couldn’t let myself explore. I did write some stuff — a lot of it was for school, and every now and then I would churn out a poem or short story or two. I even co-wrote the first draft of a novel with my best friend when we were sixteen, and I hope one day we can go back to it. Still, I was always on the edge of that world inside my head, creeping forward every now and then, cautiously, staying low to the ground, like my cat the first time we tried to take him on a walk outside. And like said cat, I would quickly chicken out and bolt back inside where it was safe and warm.
This year, I began writing again. I’ve begun to write again many times, some longer than others, but I think this time might be different. I’m working on journalling more often, being okay with writing bad stuff, pushing myself to finish things and start sharing my writing. I’m realizing how important writing is for my mental health and that I can and should prioritize it. And I’m finding joy in writing again. Maybe I just needed a few years to recover from university. (I’m kidding.) (Actually, I’m not sure if I am.)
It is still my dream to be a published author one day and to be creative and tell stories for a living, preferably the kind that don’t involve making eye contact. Although, I like imagining that one day I’ll be confident enough to maybe give talks during book tours and teach workshops every now and then. For now, though, I’m trying to focus on having fun. And panicking about whether I have any other useful skills.
I’m confused about a lot of things right now. I don’t know where I’ll be living in the next few years, don’t know what I will be doing for work, if I’ll have any new diagnoses or if I’ll have finally finished my novel. Yet sometimes I have this odd feeling that as long as I keep writing, I’ll be okay.
