It’s an easy assumption to make: bookish kids are born to write … but I didn’t always intend to be a writer.

In high school, I took summer school so that I could participate in as many music ensembles as possible during the regular school year. Along with band and choir, I loved French class, play practice, and reading.

Reading! What a reliable way to escape and an acceptable excuse for solitude. (Adults rarely bother a kid with her nose in a book.) Loveliest of all, was the chance to imagine: every character and setting, dialogue and scene came to life in my very own mind.

Language is alchemy. I read as a sorceress, conjuring landscapes I have never walked, people I will never meet, conflicts I would never brave. Eventually, I began to write—not because I wanted to—but because I had to. 

Writing, for me, is more like an itch or a doorway or a key … I must scratch out the words, enter the room, unlock a narrative. I savor the words’ rhythms, their lift and fall, their syllabic sway. 

Writing is active. It is a way to think, a method of discovery, a habit of emotional regulation, a common practice. I write as a basketball player dribbles or a pianist runs scales.

I write because it is what I do with my hands to organize my mind, as well as to discover what I want to express from my heart.