When my writing is not an uphill battle, it consists of little victories. I’m not an established writer. Despite that, I’ve built entire worlds in my head. I’m just waiting until I can share them. I don’t have publishers breathing down my neck for deadlines, so my goals are mainly conceptual. I write as soon as something comes to mind. The blurry line between awareness and sleep is a breeding ground for ideas. I often have to drag myself out of the beginnings of a dream to face the blinding light of my phone screen. Whether it’s half-baked dialogue or some obscure detail I want to remember, I type it into the security of my notes app. Most of what goes into my phone are anecdotes and experiences I’ve drawn from real life. Journaling is extremely useful. Writing about your experiences imbues your story with liveliness. Characters step off of the page and become tangible. They have human thoughts and feelings. They may remind you of yourself or even a stranger you briefly encountered. Always track progress. All my drafts and ideas for a work stay neatly organized (i.e. in random files that I can never seem to find). Nevertheless, it’s better to see where I stand compared to a year ago rather than yesterday. I feel that change is always motivating. Even if it’s not suitable for methods of comparison, there’s nothing more humbling than reading your previous writing. My most important goal is to never stray from my voice. I will always write what I love and what I believe in. I don’t write to simply tell a story. I’m sharing the most vulnerable side of myself, my creation, with the world. If I never lose sight of why I write, I’ll always be able to present the best version of myself in my writing. Writing is an art form. But to take your work and condense it into a short story takes skill. A story that executes its goals nearly flawlessly is The Egg, by Andy Weir. His language is concise but reveals a heavy meaning. It’s intensely thought-provoking and carries qualities of a parable. He touches on topics such as the existence of a god and life after death in meaningful ways. God in the story says, “All religions are right in their own way”. Weir does not favor a “correct” answer but leaves the reader to derive their truth. The subject of the story is you. This makes the lesson of the story widely applicable. Every reader can place themselves within The Egg. After your death, you meet god, who informs you of your impending reincarnation. You come to realize that god has made the entire universe for you, and you are every person that has and will live. Weir reveals the moral of the story with this: “‘Every time you victimized someone,’ I said, ‘you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself.’” This prompts you to respond to the world with kindness and generosity, and you will be repaid in turn. I’ve barely scraped the surface of the multifaceted discussions The Egg provides, but I think that the story provides a beautiful lesson that will benefit anyone who reads it.

Leaves crunch under my feet as I stumble across the uneven gravel. A breeze swells around my ankles, urging me forward. I know the seashore lies beyond the tree line. I continue down the winding path and wonder at the gnarled branches leaning toward me. It eventually opens into an overgrown courtyard, revealing a tall Victorian house cloistered behind walls of full bushes and hearty oaks. The chipped wood-paneled exterior is the color of salmon red. Tall, imposing windows line the front of the house, adorned with laurel green shutters. The combination is strangely welcoming. Well-trodden stairs give way to a wraparound porch laden with as much foliage as the surrounding garden. I part my way through pothos leaves overflowing from hanging clay pots. A towering monstera plant threatens to block my path to the door. After some fumbling with my keys, the door swings open. I step inside, toeing off my sneakers and setting them on a wooden shoe rack. I hit a switch with my elbow, and warm light floods the entryway. I head to the kitchen, my feet sinking into the plush patterned hallway runner. Light from the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminates the room, brightening the warm oak wood floor and sage green cabinets. I grab the nearest handle, greeted by my mismatched glassware. One lucky glass gets selected. I tap a beat on the edge of my farmhouse sink as my cup fills up. Once I finish, I set my cup on the counter and head up the stairs. If I trip once or twice in anticipation, that’s for me to know. Oak French doors lie at the end of the hallway. My feet hastily skid across the floor; I’m lucky not to knock over a vase. I fling open the doors, none too gently, and it hits me: the scent of books. Hundreds of them, some worn, some new. I’m surprised the floor hasn’t collapsed with the weight of them. They sit nestled in shelves that line two whole walls. I have a rolling ladder to reach the highest of them. These pages are my haven. Some have stayed with me since elementary. I pluck my current read off of a shelf at my eye level. Today, I bypass my velvet green armchair in favor of reading outside. The balcony is on the wall opposite the doorway. Crisp air ruffles my shirt as I lean back in my old patio chair. When the sun yields to the horizon, I can no longer make out the words on the page. Closing my book, I turn in for the night. Across the hall from my library is my second favorite room, where I spend equal time (sleeping). Posters and pictures from past years smother the walls. Makeup overflows from the drawers of my vanity. Books lie strewn across the rug. A reading light hangs off the edge of my rattan headboard. There is a frankly unnecessary amount of pillows at the head of my bed. Outfitted in pajamas, I throw my duvet aside and flop onto the mattress. I sink further down, and as I drift off to sleep, I dream that every day ends like this.

“When one person collapses, the other instinctively shoulders their weight.” The tenderness with which Michelle Zauner handles her relationship with her mother struck a chord with me. I firmly believe that everyone should read Crying in H Mart at least once. This memoir came to me at a very tumultuous time in my own life, and I was impacted by Zauner’s ability to jolt you as a reader. She pulls you along and sets you, none too gently, into her experience. She makes you feel. Her prose redefined how I thought about my mother, and how I took many facets of our relationship for granted. Zauner masterfully illustrates the nature of being a daughter and the hurdles that come with it, while struggling to see from your mother’s perspective, desperate to know what she thinks of you. She writes, “How cyclical and bittersweet for a child to retrace the image of their mother. For a subject to turn back to document their archivist.” And she forces you to see that you could lose all of it just as quickly. Her depiction of her grief in losing her mother was so raw that I felt it as my own in those pages. I was sent reeling from the tragedy of an event that I haven’t yet experienced. That’s the power and weight that Zauner weaves into her writing. While I think most people can relate to the book in this way, reflecting on their connection to someone close, Zauner also intertwines her unique perspective of growing up Korean-American. My favorite aspect of this book is how she shares a deep connection to her mom and her culture through Korean food. Through this lens, she straddles the line between the familiar and the unknown. She shares her culture with the reader with utmost fondness. She describes Korean dishes with a mouthwatering precision, leaving me with a newfound curiosity and a rumbling stomach. Ultimately, her reconciliation with her mother was what stayed with me. I’ll leave you with my favorite quote. “In fact, she was both my first and second words: Umma, then Mom. I called to her in two languages. Even then I must have known that no one would ever love me as much as she would.” If I hug my mother a little bit tighter now after reading this book, I have Michelle Zauner to thank.