PROSE AND CONS

I have half-written poems in the notes on my phone. I have half-filled journals in the drawers under my bed. I have full-hearted intentions to be a writer when I grow up.

Writing is the manifestation of my consciousness. Every word is woven in a way that imitates the ins and outs of my mind. It embodies the tidal force of my trepidation and triumph. It isn’t until I’ve exhausted a thought, wringing all rhetoric from it, that I can take a deep breath. Maybe this is how all writers feel. Every essay, every book, every article— there is no rest until the last word is written. 

My lust for literature was apparent from an early age— at ten years old, I was reading at a twelfth-grade comprehension level. I would walk the aisles of the library until my mom became restless, trying to narrow armfuls of books down to the limit of fifteen, knowing full well that they wouldn’t even last me through the week. But I didn’t mind having to go back for more; the library had quickly become my happy place. So had the homes and hallways of my favorite novels. 

I’ve lived a thousand lives— one for each book in which I’ve immersed myself. That, to me, is the purpose of literature; to gain the inspiration and insight that lies within each page, poignant because of the perspective in which it is told. The closeness with the characters, aiding in the affinity that is recognized by the reader, brings about a remarkable kind of empathy— an understanding only brought through intimacy of thought. This is what spurred me to write a story myself.

I wrote and illustrated my own self-published children’s book: Special Is a Good Thing: Understanding & Accepting Autism. Its purpose is to familiarize kids with the ways people on the spectrum communicate so their differences can be normalized and recognized with compassion. Every work has a purpose; it’s up to the reader to find that meaning. Writing is the embodiment of my passion, a full-hearted composition meant to inspire.