My journey of self-discovery began with a boy, a lion, and a condor bird. He was living in the aged meadow where the soccer fields once rested, his body etched with cuts from the brambles. Yet, as he slept in the arms of the lion, protected by the eye of the bird, he had no human soul beside him, and he yearned for a friend. At least, that’s what I thought when I imagined him for the first time on the swingsets, the sky churning with gray clouds heavy with the scent of petrichor. I was a particularly lonesome child, specifically throughout the 5th grade. What little friends I knew quickly turned their noses up to me; I was too immature, too bizarre for them. They were a perfect unity together, and as I entered the picture suddenly we became strangers, as though our past lives of friendship had never occurred. I quickly retreated into a new shell to protect myself from their words and judgment. “I’d rather not see you today.” “We were talking first, wait your turn” “Why did you make that? It looks ugly.” Each day after school, I promptly rushed to the arms of my grandmother, whimpering, “I just want to be their friend.” No tears seemed to stop this endless misery, this lonesomeness. Until the day I returned to the school, and on the swings, beyond the blacktop in the old soccer field, did I perceive the outline of a boy trembling along the brambles. When I went home, I wrote his story, detailing the lion who watched over his shoulder, and how under the eye of his condor he learned to navigate the world. In the brambles, listening to his tale, I had found a new friend. But beyond that, on paper, I discovered, for the first time, my words. As I created, breathing life into the pages as I willed my silver pen, I discovered my escapism. In these new worlds which I made, I explored creativity and what lay untouched inside my mind. I composed stories of what beasts lay in the woods, what the mind of the housecat thinks, and poetry detailing the ocean. These early pieces of my writing began a cycle and a dream that still urges me to create to this day. It was in these worlds, I was no longer alone, in what I created, I was free. The judgment of my peers was mere hatred, and as I wrote, their cruelties could no longer reach me. In the beauty of creativity, the divinity of words, and the power of literature, I discovered that writing was my purpose. To this day, I still compose stories. I focus on works of prose, poetry, and additionally, I have already completed my first novel, and it is in the final stages of its sixth draft. While it is currently unpublished, I entered it into the L.A.D Fair my junior year of high school, and it claimed second place for original book in the state of Missouri. I intend to become an author as an adult, and I wish to obtain my bachelor’s degree in English. The power of a story is something extraordinary - writing is my passion and it is my escapism, an outlet of creativity, a threshold to new worlds. From my highest triumphs, to my lowest despair, writing saved me. As I grow, I hope to progress further as a writer, and to remember that first, it all began with a boy, a lion, and a condor bird.

Writing has widely been regarded by mankind to be the gateway to limitless creation. I am no exception to this thought, as for the past seven years I have endeavored to become an author. For our society, success is regarded fame or wealth, however, I find success to be pride in what I do. In 9th grade, I developed an idea for a novel, a story where beneath the dawn of war, a group of rebels -- telepaths -- arose, and began to learn the truth of their dark world, and how the ambition of discovery may fly too close to the sun. This idea would change my life more than I would have ever known. As high school progressed, I learned what challenges presented themselves with balancing high school alongside a massive project. Yet, my determination only progressed as I continued to write. Today, I am on the eight draft, and I am now composing the second draft of the sequel to the story, something I never knew I could do. Last year I entered the novel into the L.A.D Fair, where it claimed second place in the entire state. I hope one day to publish my writing, and to share my stories with the world. But for me, I care not if my writing makes me famous or wealthy. I have already reached my happiness and my ideas of success by pursuing my passions, and for discovering the power of making something beautiful out a few mere words.

"Moth" Light upon the horizon Blinding, ever chasing Keep pulling me closer to your embrace Bind me with your promise, Fuel me with your hope Sinking past the sea Slipping, ceaselessly, out of reach How to spread my wings for infinite flight? I’m reaching out past the sea Clawing arms outstretched in open air Still afraid to touch the sun Like a moth to a flame Longing for the light Past the sea Among the stars We stretch our wings Eyes set on the sky A moth to the stars I will fly the infinite flight I will reach the horizon A moth to a flame

In order to have the best year of your life in high school: go do something. Specifically, what is meant by this is simply to do what makes you happy, what makes you proud, and what makes you feel alive. Write a song, audition for the musical, run a race, join the club you were hesitant about. Just do something that makes you feel like you. Do not listen to what those around you say, and do not let them discourage you from what you truly want. Think for yourself, is this truly what is making me happy? What makes me feel like me, and how do I embrace who I am? You do something that allows you to express yourself. This is your high school experience, and it is your life. I, at first, did not listen to the upperclassmen when they expressed how quickly the next four years would pass. Of course, they were right. Do not waste those four years doing things to form an illusion, or fantasy of what other people want from you. Do what makes you feel alive, and what makes you feel like the incredible person you are. Just go do something.

In a best friend, one often searches for traits of loyalty and kindness. Of honesty, and of optimism. Yet, people are endlessly surprised to see that one of my best friends is in fact a dog, named Millie. Upon her adoption, she has always been an influential part of my everyday life. From simply returning home from school late after rehearsals from musicals, and seeing her wait by the door for me, to snuggling with her and giving her head scratches from where she lay on the foot of my bed, she is truly a spectacular canine. I was in the second grade when my family adopted her, and she immediately found herself accustomed to my sister and I, and quickly pranced around our small house as though she’d lived there her whole life, immediately comfortable. That night, whilst I lay in a sleeping oblivion, a nudge against my shoulder beckoned me awake. Before me, Millie sat, and watched me precariously as I yawned and tried to get comfortable again. Once she had confirmed the idea that I was indeed alive, she nuzzled into the mattress and curled into a ball beside me, before she fell asleep peacefully with her head tucked between her paws. Just like that, I had a new best friend. However, a few months later when I was about eight my parents explained a new truth to me. They would be getting a divorce, and almost immediately the world around me shattered. Shortly after it was settled my dad took Millie with him to his new house, and with the shared custody between them I was constantly worried and crestfallen. However, despite this new, saddening change Millie always found new ways to put a grin upon my face. One day, we decided to treat her for her good behavior with a new food she has yet to taste--peanut butter. My dad placed a dollop of the treat on the lid of the container, only for her to bark impetuously at it, demanding it retreat from our kitchen. Then, on our first Halloween with her, she barked upon seeing my frightening barn owl costume. Wagging her tail, in a sense, I suppose still recognizing me, as though she were stating, “What happened to your arms? And why don’t you have hands? How can we play together now?” For such a difficult and unusual situation for all of us, Millie, in a way, kept me looking up at the bright side of things. She may have never known what true good she was doing those days, but when we played together in the backyard, or went on a walk, or just sat on the couch to watch My Little Pony reruns, Millie always kept me happy, and endlessly brightened my days. As for now, our dog Millie is going to be eleven years old this year, and it’s still surreal to think just how long she’s been a part of our family. She’s still curious, adventurous--and of course--a good girl, and always is my best friend. She helped me through so much, just by being there and making my days happier, by letting me snuggle with her and play fetch with her in the backyard of the house my dad endeavored tirelessly to fix. By barking at a flower pot, by encouraging me to play with her, or even just snuggling with me when I was sick, she helped me to smile and gave me a sense that everything--as confusing as it was--was going to be okay in the end.

It began with a boy, a lion, and a condor bird. He was living in the aged meadow where the soccer fields once rested, his body etched with cuts from the brambles. Yet, as he slept in the arms of the lion, protected by the eye of the bird, he had no human soul beside him, and he yearned for a friend. At least, that’s how I imagined him for the first time, the sky churning with heavy clouds and the scent of petrichor. I was a lonesome child, specifically throughout the 5th grade. What little friends I knew quickly turned their noses to me, I was too bizarre for them. They were a perfect unity together, but as I entered the picture suddenly we became strangers, as though our past lives of friendship had never occurred. I was the girl who watched from the corner, a book cradled in her arms, who once was so boisterous and extroverted; and so quickly I retreated into a new shell to protect myself from their judgment. Yet in that pain, I tried, so I could share with them my words for songs, stories, games of which to play, simply to be silenced by their cues. “I’d rather not see you today.", “We were talking first, wait your turn”, “Why did you make that? It looks ugly” . Each day after school, I promptly rushed to the arms of my grandmother, whimpering, “I just want to be their friend.” No tears seemed to stop this endless misery. But on one fateful afternoon on the swings in the old soccer field, did I perceive the outline of a boy trembling along the brambles. When I went home I wrote his story, detailing the lion who watched over his shoulder, and how under the eye of his condor he learned to navigate the world. In the brambles, listening to him, I had found a new companion. But beyond that, on paper, I discovered, for the first time, my words. As I created, breathing life into the pages as I willed my silver pen, I discovered my escapism. In these new worlds in which I made, I explored into creativity and into what lay untouched inside my mind. I composed stories of what beasts lay in the woods, what the mind of the housecat thinks, and poetry detailing the ocean. These early pieces of my writing began a cycle and a dream that still urges me to create to this day. It was in these worlds, I was no longer alone, in what I created, I was free. The judgment of my peers was mere hatred, and as I wrote, their cruelties could no longer reach me. In the beauty of creativity, the divinity of words, the power of literature, I discovered that writing was my purpose. To this day, I still compose stories. Works of prose, poetry, and I have already completed my first novel, and it is in the final stages of its sixth draft. While it is currently unpublished, I entered it into the LAD Fair my junior year of high school, and it claimed second place for original book in the state of Missouri. I intend to become an author, and I wish to obtain my bachelor’s degree in English. The power of a story is something extraordinary - writing is my passion and it is my escapism, an outlet of creativity, a threshold to new worlds. From my highest triumphs, to my lowest despair, writing saved me. But first, it all began with a boy, a lion, and a condor bird.