august_author_wpI am a 27 year old writer residing in Youngstown, Ohio with my husband, one-eyed cat child, Maia, and as of June 2017, a rescue dog named Dorothy.

I’ve been writing for a long time. In the fifth grade, my teacher pulled me aside after a creative writing assignment and said to me very matter of factly that I was going to grow up and be a writer. Of course, as a child, I had accepted my unknown career quite easily. It was like that Thing I always knew, that Thing I would wake up one day and find myself being.

And then I grew up, I suppose. As a teenager I still wrote. It was mostly stunted versions of poetry and random bits of fanfiction, but regardless, I enjoyed it quite a bit. I was very imaginative; I was always thinking up something. But somehow along the way, adulthood snatched my creativity and dug a hole somewhere in the middle of nowhere and shoved it in there, covering it up and cackling incessantly.

I made choices that took me far away from my childhood dream of becoming a writer. I stopped writing, for a long time.

But then I woke up one day and had an idea. A whisper of one, really, but an idea all the same. I went about my adult daily life but at the same time thought of my idea, allowed it to grow and fully form, and then discovered rather abruptly that my idea had real live people driving it.

These people spoke to me like anyone else, except they were in my head. I’m sure you can imagine that I was quite concerned for my state of mind. I thought of little else. I had discovered that there was an entire world beyond the realm of reality, that perhaps the world of imagination was as real as anything else. I stopped worrying about my state of mind; I started listening to the people instead. And as a result I discovered the beauty of taking an idea and giving it actual life.

And so I started writing again. I discovered that writing is a muscle, almost. The more you use it, the easier it is. And then I was able to give those people in my head names, and allowed them to help me tell their stories. It’s strangely fulfilling and satisfying, and I even though it’s immensely difficult sometimes, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

I’m still an adult, with a day job that does not involve writing. When I’m not immersing myself in someone else’s world via film or books, I’m probably writing, and when I’m writing, I’m growing.

And it’s such a beautiful thing.