I became addicted to words the moment I realized they could move people. My childhood, marked by turbulence, quickly became my first source of inspiration. I was the eldest daughter of war refugees, who foisted their expectations of strength and stoicism onto a sensitive spirit. Initially, I wrote to process the chaos around me, my words—scaffolding—in a shaky home. But when I began writing for an audience, I experienced a profound shift: I finally felt seen and understood. As a reader, I remember the first time I saw my thoughts reflected on the page. Somehow, somewhere, an author had read my mind and printed it all official-like in a book. To a lonely kid, seeing proof that someone else thought like me meant everything. As a writer (unpaid creative essays and fanfiction) it was soul-level satisfying to hear that either my story or my storytelling resonated with someone. I think both are important because I imbue myself in the stories and words chosen and not chosen. For me, writing is a practice in authenticity. Through writing, I learned you can reach across generations and all other striations in identity. Beyond connecting with people, I also just love words. For over a decade, my professional world was crunching data and writing dry technical documents for software, but in the margins of my life, I never stopped annotating books. This year, the phrase that has haunted my thoughts is Frank Herbert’s “terrible purpose” from Dune. The phrase does many things in the book, but mainly, it captures Paul Atreides’ psychic awareness of the dark plot encircling him. To me, “terrible purpose” feels like the shuddering bass of giant footsteps drawing near, evoking tension while foreshadowing the orchestrated violence that crashes down on his family. Its potency was so profound that it reverberated in the movie score and scenes translated by director Denis Villeneuve. How do you write something so palpable that isn’t composed of sight, sound, touch, taste, or smell? Questions like these are the kindling that fuels my passion for writing. While my only formal education in writing was a 60s lit class in college, I’ve taught myself by studying prose that resonates with me—like Brandon Sanderson’s multilayered character development and worldbuilding in The Stormlight Archive. However, being self-taught has its limits; I often write based on what feels right without fully understanding why it works. I know many accomplished writers succeed without an MFA, but I want to go beyond intuition to become an effective writer. To reach my goals, I’m looking for an education that balances hands-on practice with a deep understanding of the craft. It’s also important to me that programs encourage creativity and exploration over prescribing a single “right” way to write, allowing me to develop my voice. It’s been my lifelong dream to connect with people through words for a living—to be the proud author of poignant scenes that lasso tears from the most unwilling eyes or wring ragged breaths from those eagerly awaiting the next installment in a series. For me, writing is more than a trade; it’s a way to find common ground, to reach into another person’s world, and to share something raw and honest. When we are touched by words, we tap into the shared human experience. Those moments of breathlessness—when a book or story resonates so deeply it feels like it was written just for you—remind us of life’s interconnectedness. That is the power of art, and art is the stuff in the margins that makes life worth living.