When I was little, there were few things more exhilarating than a fresh stack of white paper. Watching ink or pencil shavings spread across a page by a simple movement of my right hand could captivate me for hours. As school became more and more important, so did school supplies, and I loved shopping with my mom for tall pencils with soft pink erasers. I was a prolific writer as a child: I always competed to write more than my classmates in everything, from homework to short stories. Later in life, I would learn that this ability came from my passion for reading. I never realized it, but that provided all the learning experiences I was missing out on in my “perfect” private school bubble, as well as set in my heart a goal to reach: I wanted to write. I received my first journal as a Christmas gift from my grandfather, and as I spent more and more time scribbling my thoughts, I sensed that my writings did not just belong to me. I wanted them to be read. The more books I read, the more I’m convinced that I’ve got to write, and the more journals I fill, the more I’m convinced that I’ve got to share them. I want to spend time with words, hidden deep within the pages of books, whether I’m writing them or editing them. There is no passion in my life that I have spent more time on than the craft of the English language, and that is what I want to spend the rest of my life doing, as well.