Since the moment I picked up a pencil as a child, I’ve written to survive. Writing was my escape from the struggles of growing up—I sketched scenes, then filled notebooks with stories, and slowly the worlds I created blossomed alongside my obsession with the written word. Even then, my purpose felt clear.

As an adult, I write for soul replenishment. To better understand people, their choices, and the complicated depth of human nature. Stories, to me, are more than imagination—they’re mirrors of who we are.

Writers don’t write because they want to. Wanting is fleeting. We write because we have to—because passion itches, burns, and forces the imagination forward, even when logic says to stop.