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The appreciation of the art of writing came early in life. I read countless books, fascinating stories, and tales woven together with exhilarating content. I translated my desire to write superlatively, into my school work – essays, spelling competitions, answers to questions in literature, and more.

Writing is an art form – it sometimes has structure and other times it is free flowing. Sometimes it builds to a conclusion from basic assumptions and premises, while other times it is purely about how one feels. I love the variety.

I know there is a lot to learn – the mechanics of what makes a great piece. Words that click and teach me how we humans make sense of our world – we do not remember arguments but cling on tightly and long to stories. Stories make our lives meaningful – not because they may be technically correct – but rather what they mean to a person. Narratives make for great content – else they are just facts strung together in words.

As a child, I spent a lot of time alone – my life became the stories I told myself during these times I spent with myself. The stories were my internal narratives – my deepest desires and my darkest fears. Every letter somehow coalesces into words, become a fundamental building block and then build a story and– it is how we see and define ourselves, gain some semblance of sense of the world and the people in it.