I’ll admit, the reason I write is not profound. I don’t disguise myself behind paper and ink, anxious thoughts clouding my head at the thought of someone knowing who I truly am. I don’t think writing is the epitome of art, superior to all other mediums. I don’t expose my deep trauma (of which I have none) or make comments on world events. I write because I am fascinated by the human mind.

Growing up, my family watched movie series like Harry Potter, Star Wars, The Hunger Games, The Avengers, etc. I was too young to truly comprehend what was happening in each film, but nevertheless I was enthralled in each world I saw. I couldn’t stop wondering how it was possible for someone to think of an entirely new universe, and then put it into ours. How could they possibly think of how a different world even works? My mom encouraged me to read more challenging books. She said it’s more impressive there, where it’s up to the reader to determine how the world looks, guided by the words of the author. So I began reading. 

The first series I remember reading were the Magic Tree House books. Not only was I thrown into a different time period every book, where my mind ran wild with the thought, but the characters weren’t real. I figured the creation of a character, with their own feelings, relationships, and struggles, was far more complex than the creation of a world. 

I began to write both.

I wrote things about my stuffed animals first, not quite ready to create a character from scratch. I gave them their own personalities, relationships, fights, and I put them in the world based on my bedroom. My stiff, wooden chair became a rotten jail cell. My blue bed sheet became a vast ocean, a place of relaxation for more than just me. My bookshelves became skyscrapers, towering above the rest of the city. 

Then I branched out. I began writing about real animals, albeit mostly cheetahs. I wrote about being in the savannah, taming a wild big cat, and loving it for the rest of my life. I wrote about stray cats on the playground, dogs in the junkyard, birds escaping captors. Then I wrote about something less interesting—myself, along with my two neighbors. I transported us into the world of spies, going on missions inspired by chores and fighting enemies like my brother. I began researching, asking my dad questions about how spies actually work, though the concept of the Cold War and the CIA was too complex for me at the time. 

I showed my stories to my family, written hastily with no paragraph breaks in a notes app on my tablet. My mom showed me how to use dialogue like in my books, break paragraphs, and use correct grammar. My dad transferred my works to Google Docs, where I could save them forever. I suppose I have them to thank for my hatred of poorly formatted stories.

I’m still captivated by characters—I create them constantly even without a story for them to live in. I add elements of myself into them, along with people I admire and people I hate. I love the idea of creating an entirely new person, but perhaps all my own characters are born from my life, irrelevant pieces stuck together like a crazy perfect puzzle.

I’ve met people who enjoy creating fantasy maps and worlds, and I want to learn from them, improve on what I have and acknowledge what I lack. I want to be able to write an entirely new universe. A new idea with my own characters and a captivating world. I want to stretch my mind and let my imagination run wild.

I suppose the true reason I write is because someday, I want someone to read one of my books and be mesmerized by the creativity and detail of my own creation.