In a small alcove in my parents’ attic there is a plastic box.
The box is tattooed with my name on all sides and contains a series of loose pages and stacks of stapled papers – all filled with penciled words strung together in a narrative fashion. Written words have encompassed my life – perhaps more so than in others’ – from the time I was able to consciously listen to someone read and watch someone write. A love for reading, myself, embedded into my bones at an early age, paving the way for a lifetime of written words that I would eventually construct and create stories out of.