Look, I didn't want to be a writer.*

Growing up, I was a voracious reader, a shy kid who found her peers on the page. I curated my favorite words, savoring how "melancholy" rolled off my tongue and giggling over the specificity of "defenestrate." I couldn't spell to save my life. I loved stories — plays, comics, fanfiction, the drama (real or imagined) between the couple I passed on the sidewalk — wherever there was a narrative to dissect, I was there.

 

Despite the foreshadowing, this career never crossed my mind.

I still read, just not as much as I'd like. My list of favorite words has only grown. My brain insists that "majick" is the correct spelling. I still love stories, and slip in references* to my favorites whenever possible.

I didn't want to be a writer, but I've always loved when endings make sense.