I was born in Houston, Texas. My family and I went camping with family friends, and my best friends and I would climb the trees and build houses out of hay bales. Those memories are so vivid; the pungent smell of the hay, the rashes on my legs after playing in it too long. I remember the time I fell out of a tree, and I landed on my back; I was in so much pain I hadn't even realized the impact released all the liquid from my bladder. I remember the time when I was five, and I dropped my favorite stuffed animal into the campfire; my dad dove in and retrieved it for me. He didn't even think twice--he didn't even hesitate before reaching his hand into the flames to salvage my stuffed animal. It didn't work that well; the plastic face was melted, and the wool was burnt to a crisp. That night replayed in my head for weeks: my dad burning himself to save plastic and fabric for me.

We loved taking road trips, and our family's goal was to drive through every state in the United States. Every long car ride (typically four to eleven hours, depending on where we're going) was a complete hell for me. I had nothing to do. My main hobby was dancing, and it's tough to dance in a car (believe me — I've tried.) I knew I had to acquire a new hobby, but I just wasn't sure which. Every game on the App Store wasn't appealing anymore. I resorted to talking to my sister, but it didn't last long because, when she became a snotty teenager, she ignored me. I started listening to music, but my playlist was only so long (twenty-three hours, actually, but I don't listen to half of them.) I got bored of looking out the window, and soon I got my own laptop. My sister and her friend started writing gay-fantasy-superhero stories on Wattpad and YouTube. I was intrigued. I opened my Google Docs and started my own writing. Of course, it began really cringey: The Mermaid Diary — I wrote this book so I could later film it with the new mermaid tail I had just gotten for my birthday, and I justified the goggles as "special glasses because I was allergic to seawater but only my eyes." Real creative, huh? Then there was The True Story of the McDonald's Kitchen. But don't get me started on that. Shortly after, I started writing horror stories. They weren't too bad for my age. I'd end up writing about twenty pages before I had a "new idea" and completely forget about the previous one. My parents say I'm "spontaneous." I get an idea, all of a sudden, and I act upon it... spontaneously. I can't argue with that. I am. I fixate on a random hobby at random times, and obsess over it for a hot period; five bins full of yarn for crocheting, two shelves full of dusty books, a hundred bottles of paint, two guitars, one drum kit, one microphone, and a gaming setup... the list goes on. The point is, I have a lot of hobbies... and I'm also a hoarder... But writing was different. At first it wasn't. I always had this idea to "write a book." In fifth grade, my friends and I got together and planned out a whole novel. The planning was minimal, just a basic premise. We called it Lost in Disney. It was a clash of all the books we read: The Babysitters Club, Hide and Seeker, and Junie B. Jones. It was a mess. It ended quite quickly, along with the friendship. 

After a while, I didn't really write much anymore. I got older, and I started playing video games, studying, and doing art or baking. Writing was still in me, but it just kind of lived in the back of my head. Then my family and I moved to Malaysia. My life was completely different. I didn't even need hobbies. I was in a foreign country, living in the center of a tourist city. I wasn't staying in the house; I was exploring every crevice. Shopping at the malls, seeing the Petronas Towers, and scanning the grocery stores for familiar snacks from my home. It was exciting. So exciting. I was never bored. Then I made friends, we'd go out all the time. I never had the downtime to write. It never even crossed my mind. I wasn't a writer, I thought. Being hunched over at a desk wasn't the life for me. I was going to marry my "prince charming." Blonde, tall, skinny, athletic. But I guess we don't always turn out to be what we thought we'd be. I told myself I'd never do ballet, and now I'm crying at my desk because my ankle is still healing and I can't go on releve anymore. It's funny how life works, isn't it? Serendipity. That's what it is. You don't make a miracle; it just happens. You can work for a dream, but not for a miracle. There's a difference between creating and finding. I found writing, and now I'm creating the dream I  found. If there's anything I've learned over the past few years, it's that you can't force yourself to love something or someone. It sort of just happens. To be honest, I don't know exactly when I started writing. I remember when I started writing Serenity. It was after I got diagnosed with depression, and I began writing about my time in Malaysia, mainly because it was easy to write about something I've experienced. Then things got worse, and I stopped writing it, but now I'm back at it. Please go check out Serenity if you haven't. It's a great book for suicide awareness and representing that your actions have consequences. The poetry came out of nowhere. I found a book, Milk and Honey, by Rupi Kaur. I think that's what got me into it. But if I'm being completely honest... I can't really remember. All I know is that one day, I woke up and decided I wanted to write a book. I planned the whole thing. Fifty pages of pure planning. My parents doubted me at first, especially when I started slacking. But, the longer it went on, after several months of me obsessing at the keyboard, when I had fifty pages of planning, I started writing a manuscript and figuring out how to print them. They saw my drive. My parents always wanted the best for me and would do anything to make my dreams come true. Truth is, without them, none of this would be happening. They're the ones who kept my feet from slipping under me. They're the ones who slept in a folding chair at my bedside in the hospital. They're the ones who always had faith in me; my first readers, my first buyers, my first followers. I can't thank them enough. (Some other shoutouts: Sydney Labani, Beau Hill, Ivy Wehner; I thank all of you.)

The truth is, even with all of this, I still tend to doubt myself. There's that annoying voice in the back of my mind that I can't get rid of. The one who always tells me that no one cares. But I'm never going to stop. Someday, I'll be great, I just need y'all's help... and if you're reading this, well, you've already helped.

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