Writing

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. It was a hunger, like the pull of the sea, something I couldn’t shake. In fourth grade, I wrote my first “book,” driven by the real-life wonder of finding a horse in my backyard. My grandfather and I approached it with sugar cubes, marveling at our good fortune, until a stranger arrived to take the horse away. I turned the experience into a story, complete with dialogue and—recklessly—one curse word. I expected admiration. Instead, my grandmother frowned, my teacher scolded, and the first spark of my storytelling confidence was snuffed out. I learned then to write in secret, to tuck my stories away like treasure buried beneath the tide.