I was born a writer. I spin words into immersive worlds and create characters that impact and change people. I realized my dream when I started writing fan fiction novels at age nine. I wrote without paragraphs or proper punctuation and, despite the neon ink I used to write with being hard to read, my mother patiently read my never-ending story aloud to me and my three younger siblings. She taught me to take pride in my work and believe in my abilities. She introduced me to the idea that I define myself. I soon branched away from fan fiction. I wanted to create characters and worlds I alone could imagine and design, and I did just that by writing a total of half a dozen series that are set in six different worlds of my creation. I was young when I queried my novels to literary agents and publishers; twelve years old and envious that my books were rejected while what I deemed as lesser books were selling wildly. After discovering how competitive the publishing world is, I realized I needed to learn all I could about writing in order to craft stories that stand out. I turned to books to guide me in technique and formatting while I continued to write novels, short stories, and poetry to find my own style and voice. The knowledge that what I write can change the course of peoples’ lives pushes me to write narratives that are groundbreaking and dynamic. I want to give readers a chance to open up to their own inner fears and face their sorrows. I want to help people discover a new perspective or open up to the joy of living. I want to make people cry and laugh and scream. I want to make people love, hope, and dream. I know I need to push myself to further evolve into the people I will become. College will help me refine my writing skills, fine-tune my imaginative and creative thinking abilities, and push me toward doors I cannot currently open. This is why I am pursuing a Creative Writing degree at the University of Arizona. When I do not write, I feel ordinary and tense. When I write, I burst into vibrant being. As a student, I am determined to learn by asking questions, interacting with my teachers and classmates, and learning from my mistakes. As an author, I imagine myself not bound to the pen but part of it, eternal in writing. I want to be a distinctive and compelling personality who creates worlds that immerse and entrap the reader. I hold the seeds to such books in my hand, and I am determined to plant them. I currently run a creative writing blog where I share poetry, short stories, and writing guides. People who never considered poetry as a valuable form of literature now read my poems consistently and often comment to share how my writing has touched them, moved them, and awakened dead dreams inside of them. I believe my writing will benefit society by helping people open up to their inner creativity and reconnect with dreams they have lost sight of. I write to educate, I write to inspire and, most importantly, I write to help people redefine themselves.

@nin_chronicles

Ever since I started reading Regency and Victorian novels as a young girl, I have been fascinated by the idea of letter collecting. I am not talking about hunting through thrift stores or scanning the newspapers for yard and estate sales in the hopes of discovering bundles of yellowed letters tied together with ribbons for $5. No, I am talking about collecting thoughtful, intentional letters written to me by my forever friends. As a young girl I set out to make those forever friends and, at thirteen, I entered a baking competition hosted by a Virginian orchard. After anxiously leaving my peach bundt cake to the scrutiny of the judges, I started talking with my competition. One of my competitors was a Mennonite girl named Elsa five years my senior. She stood out to me not only in her unusual way of dress but in her sweet manner which reminded me of characters like Diana from Anne of Green Gables and Meg from Little Women. Elsa and I fell to talking. I discovered that, like me, she was homeschooled and that she was part of a large Mennonite community. Her simple ways and elegance charmed me. Later, after the baking competition results were announced and I celebrated my first-place win, I went to find Elsa in the mass of excited people clammering to try the lineup of baking competition entries. I asked Elsa for her address and promised to write to continue our conversation. Thus began a relationship of exchanging letters that is still a part of my life today. Elsa and I wrote at least a letter a month and, as Elsa was older than me, I loved seeing the world through her mature eyes. She felt like the older sister I never had and, although her culture was strange to me, I appreciated the way she made me feel at home in her Mennonite home when I went to visit and how her family welcomed me. Elsa wrote letters about her travels through her church and her eventual love affair that led to marriage. I wrote about my passion for creative writing, my daily life on my family's homestead in rural Virginia, and my eventual first steps toward college. The most meaningful handwritten letter I received was Elsa's letter to me when she heard I had been accepted into the University of Arizona. She wrote to say she would miss me but that our letters would bridge the gap between Virginia and Arizona and keep our friendship strong. She confessed that the idea of college was strange to her and something she did not dare to reach for, as she had chosen to live a traditional Mennonite life as a wife and mother. She wished me all happiness in my pursuits and hoped that I approached my new life with wisdom. This letter hit upon every reason why I believe handwritten notes or messages are more meaningful than typed messages. Elsa's letter was heartfelt and concise; raw and emotional; personal and intentional. Her letter not only spoke to and helped assuage my fears about leaving my home for college but also revealed the mindset of its writer; one of both wistfulness and the pure hope only forever friends have for each other. When I write by hand, I present my best stories because I am aware my letters are tangible and will not be lost in the digital void. Instead, my letters become narratives of beauty where the plainest details of my life transform into moments of significance that the reader can connect with time and time again.

I have a special connection with animals. Over the years, I have touched spitting cats only to calm them, befriended reticent pets, and looked after animals that only respond to their owners and me. I look after a flock of chickens, but I also have a dog. She does not sleep with me or live indoors. I do not buy her toys or consistently give her treats, but my love for her has only ever deepened over the twelve years I have known her. My Clover is a working farm dog. She is a half Pyrenees, half boxer that I picked her out of a litter of give-away farm puppies when I was eight. When she was young, Clover was incredibly energetic. She would run ahead of the car down our gravel driveway to the road whenever my family left on a day trip. She jumped on visitors, and she jumped on their cars. She jumped on me too. She would rest her paws on my ribs and wag her tail and only sit down once I petted her. Several years ago, a huge black snake got into our hen coop. The snake was eight feet of glistening, smooth scales and, despite being a non-poisonous constrictor, the sight of it terrified me. For weeks the snake sat in the nesting boxes in the coop and devoured our eggs. The nesting boxes were too high up for Clover to reach so the snake stayed on until the chickens stopped laying. The next summer, the snake came back around the time our yearly hatching of chicks were half grown and were about the size of a hamster. The black snake ate eggs at first, but then it tried to eat a young chicken. The snake swallowed the chicken headfirst until it reached the wings and could not open its mouth wide enough to swallow the jutting wing bones. The snake spat the chicken out, and the poor chick came out with its upper half twisted like a bottle opener. The sight of it angered me. I used a rake to rake the snake out of the coop. Clover pounced on it and killed it. Watching her grasp the snake between her teeth and toss it in the air awed me; Clover’s instincts told her what to do and she did it without hesitation. Watching her, I resolved to start trusting myself more, take confidence in my intuition, and be brave in the face of fear. Clover shows me what it is to live a full, purposeful life and how important and amazing it is to have someone to talk to silently without fear of judgement about anything from my fears of what the future will hold to my anxiety of meeting new people. Last summer, Clover developed a tumor. It grew on the right side of her tail until her tail was crooked and she could not go to the bathroom properly. She had to have surgery. The only place we could find to do the surgery was an exhausting ninety-minute drive from our home. My dad and I left on surgery day at six in the morning and watched the sun rise over the parkway as we drove down the mountain. I hated to leave Clover at the specialist’s overnight, but we had no choice. The next day, we came down to pick her up. Clover was so happy to see us, but she looked alien with a cone on her head and a halter to clip her drain to. She was shy and unable to jump into the car without help. Clover stayed in the house in a walled off area for two weeks. The first day home, she could barely stand up and she had no bathroom control. She wanted to go outside but, even when we left the door open for her, she just lay on the floor and looked out. I was so afraid my hardy, loving dog was gone but, as the drugs wore off, she started to chirk up. She was ready to go back outside full-time after just a few days, and it was so hard to get her back inside after her walks, but I worked with her until finally she was well enough for the drain to come out. Clover did so well for about eight months after her recovery, but now I have noticed she is less energetic and less hungry. She lies in the shade and rests and tries to roll over to get her tummy rubbed. I noticed a lump starting to swell in the surgery site, so I took her to a surgeon I found only forty minutes away from my home. She has a hernia that has to be operated on, and I take her in for the operation in less than a week. The recovery time is three weeks. I am thankful I will be here for Clover to help her through her recovery and that I can see her slowly return to her old, fun-loving self before I leave for college. She has been here for me without fail or question whenever I need her, and I love that I can give her some of the help and encouragement she has given me over the years before I go. I know Clover will be in good hands with my parents and siblings but, at the back of my mind lingers the fear that, when I leave for college, it will be the last time I see her. I love Clover’s steady companionship, love, and warmth. Nowadays I sit outside with her and rub her, enjoy her presence and company, and curse myself for all the moments I could have spent with her in the past. Clover has been with me through the hard and happy. She has helped me grow from a girl into a woman, and I know I would not be as empathetic and gentle as I am today without her influence.

I have a special connection with animals. Over the years, I have touched spitting cats only to calm them, befriended reticent pets, and looked after animals that only respond to their owners and me. I look after a flock of chickens, but I also have a dog. She does not sleep with me or live indoors. I do not buy her toys or consistently give her treats, but my love for her has only ever deepened over the twelve years I have known her. My Clover is a working farm dog. She is a half Pyrenees, half boxer that I picked her out of a litter of give-away farm puppies when I was eight. When she was young, Clover was incredibly energetic. She would run ahead of the car down our gravel driveway to the road whenever my family left on a day trip. She jumped on visitors, and she jumped on their cars. She jumped on me too. She would rest her paws on my ribs and wag her tail and only sit down once I petted her. Several years ago, a huge black snake got into our hen coop. The snake was eight feet of glistening, smooth scales and, despite being a non-poisonous constrictor, the sight of it terrified me. For weeks the snake sat in the nesting boxes in the coop and devoured our eggs. The nesting boxes were too high up for Clover to reach so the snake stayed on until the chickens stopped laying. The next summer, the snake came back around the time our yearly hatching of chicks were half grown and were about the size of a hamster. The black snake ate eggs at first, but then it tried to eat a young chicken. The snake swallowed the chicken headfirst until it reached the wings and could not open its mouth wide enough to swallow the jutting wing bones. The snake spat the chicken out, and the poor chick came out with its upper half twisted like a bottle opener. The sight of it angered me. I used a rake to rake the snake out of the coop. Clover pounced on it and killed it. Watching her grasp the snake between her teeth and toss it in the air awed me; Clover’s instincts told her what to do and she did it without hesitation. Watching her, I resolved to start trusting myself more, take confidence in my intuition, and be brave in the face of fear. Clover shows me what it is to live a full, purposeful life and how important and amazing it is to have someone to talk to silently without fear of judgement about anything from my fears of what the future will hold to my anxiety of meeting new people. Last summer, Clover developed a tumor. It grew on the right side of her tail until her tail was crooked and she could not go to the bathroom properly. She had to have surgery. The only place we could find to do the surgery was an exhausting ninety-minute drive from our home. My dad and I left on surgery day at six in the morning and watched the sun rise over the parkway as we drove down the mountain. I hated to leave Clover at the specialist’s overnight, but we had no choice. The next day, we came down to pick her up. Clover was so happy to see us, but she looked alien with a cone on her head and a halter to clip her drain to. She was shy and unable to jump into the car without help. Clover stayed in the house in a walled off area for two weeks. The first day home, she could barely stand up and she had no bathroom control. She wanted to go outside but, even when we left the door open for her, she just lay on the floor and looked out. I was so afraid my hardy, loving dog was gone but, as the drugs wore off, she started to chirk up. She was ready to go back outside full-time after just a few days, and it was so hard to get her back inside after her walks, but I worked with her until finally she was well enough for the drain to come out. Clover did so well for about eight months after her recovery, but now I have noticed she is less energetic and less hungry. She lies in the shade and rests and tries to roll over to get her tummy rubbed. I noticed a lump starting to swell in the surgery site, so I took her to a surgeon I found only forty minutes away from my home. She has a hernia that has to be operated on, and I take her in for the operation in less than a week. The recovery time is three weeks. I am thankful I will be here for Clover to help her through her recovery and that I can see her slowly return to her old, fun-loving self before I leave for college. She has been here for me without fail or question whenever I need her, and I love that I can give her some of the help and encouragement she has given me over the years before I go. I know Clover will be in good hands with my parents and siblings but, at the back of my mind lingers the fear that, when I leave for college, it will be the last time I see her. I love Clover’s steady companionship, love, and warmth. Nowadays I sit outside with her and rub her, enjoy her presence and company, and curse myself for all the moments I could have spent with her in the past. Clover has been with me through the hard and happy. She has helped me grow from a girl into a woman, and I know I would not be as empathetic and gentle as I am today without her influence.

There are many assumptions surrounding homeschooled students. We are usually assumed to be geniuses. I have not taken any AP or Dual Enrollment classes and I did not start college at fourteen. I am a pretty ordinary student when it comes to my math and science grades, and the only thing that sets me apart from my peers is I have been pursuing my love of creative writing to my heart’s content since I was nine. This means I spent years learning from reader feedback and online critiques, years learning about the publishing industry, and years writing dozens of novels, short stories, poems, and articles. I often worried that I would not be able to go to college. Academically, I was concerned that my unusual high school transcript would not be accepted by any colleges. Personally, I was afraid I would not be able to do the coursework and that I would not be able to adapt to a classroom setting. But, as I inched closer and closer to my twentieth birthday, I started to realize that there is only so much I can accomplish and learn myself without the extra guidance and motivation college offers. I want to write narratives that are groundbreaking and dynamic. I want to give readers a chance to open up to their own inner fears and face their sorrows. I want to help people discover a new perspective or open up to the joy of living. I want to make people cry and laugh and scream. I want to make people love and hope and dream. I know I need to push myself to further evolve into the people I will become. College will help me refine my writing skills, fine-tune my imaginative and creative thinking abilities, and push me toward doors I cannot currently open. This is why I am determined to receive the education I need by pursuing a Creative Writing degree at the University of Arizona. When I do not write, I feel ordinary and tense. When I write, I burst into vibrant being. As a student, I am determined to learn by asking questions, interacting with my teachers and classmates, and learning from my mistakes. As an author, I imagine myself not bound to the pen but part of it, eternal in writing. I want to be a distinctive and compelling personality who creates worlds that immerse and entrap the reader. I hold the seeds to such books in my hand, and I am determined to plant them. I currently run a creative writing blog where I share poetry, short stories, and writing guides. People who never considered poetry as a valuable form of literature now read my poems consistently and often comment to share how my writing has touched them, moved them, and awakened dead dreams inside of them. I believe my writing will benefit society by helping people open up to their inner creativity and reconnect with dreams they have lost sight of. I write to educate, I write to inspire and, most importantly, I write to help people redefine themselves.

I started working at fifteen and quickly learned that, while good money is hard to earn, it is even harder to keep. Small purchases, like frequent coffees and snacks, ate alarming holes into my monthly statements. I realized I needed to become financially responsible if I wanted to budget, save, and spend my money smartly. I started reading online articles and watching videos on budgeting, saving, and financial tips. One of the biggest tips that continuously stood out to me was budgeting. I discovered that, by knowing exactly how much money I have at any given time, I can better budget spending limits for each month. By having separate saving and spending amounts, I was not just working hard to save every penny; I still had a little money to work with each month to reward and appreciate myself for the effort I put into my jobs. Budgeting gave me the freedom to use some of the money I earned for things I enjoy, like iced lattes on a hot day or a raspberry bar to sweeten up my afternoon, without setting myself back from reaching my saving goals. Instead of only saving or only spending, budgeting helped me achieve a balance between the two. I was happier with my work and with my life knowing that my hard work was paying off in the long run, but also offering me smaller rewards to enjoy in the present.

I fell in love with Little Women by Louisa May Alcott when I was twelve, and the book remains a comfort read on my shelf to this day. In fact, Little Women is one of the few books I plan on making room for in my suitcase to take to college. Little Women is the story of four young sisters growing up during the Civil War. It is about reaching for one's dreams. It is about compromise, family ties, and womanhood. I started reading the book when I was roughly the same age as the March sisters. Over the years, as I repeatedly reread the book, I felt as if I was growing alongside the sisters into a woman. Their lessons became my lessons. Their struggles became my struggles. Some of their dreams mirrored my dreams. Reading the book, I learned what it looks like to face life with grace. I discovered what it means to trust in one's self, trust in family, and trust that the universe is leading me in the right direction, even when it seems like life is stacked against me. I turn to Little Women today when I am struggling to write. I pick up the book when I am upset, angry, or sorrowful. I flip through the chapters and find one of the sisters is struggling with the same thing I am. In reading about their problem solution, I come away from Little Women with a deeper understanding of what I can do to help myself. Little Women is to me what The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan is to the March sisters. It's my guiding light in a twilight world. With the book at my side, I feel I can handle anything life throws at me and come away stronger for the wear.

Creative writing is my chosen form of creativity; it has captivated me since the age of nine and it helped me heal from anxiety. In 2018, I was unhappy with my weight and my oily skin. I could not think about practices I stood against, such as child spanking, without spiraling into a tense, emotional state that left me angry and drained. After a heartbreaking exchange of opinions on child spanking in an online forum, the brunt of my anxiety hit me. For three days, when I sat down to read or write, I felt as if I would fall off my chair as repeated waves of dizziness and nausea swept over me. I did not know what was going on, but I hoped it would go away on its own. As my inability to focus and the tightness in my chest grew, I found I could not sleep well and, even worse, I could not practice my deepest passion: writing. I sought help at the closest emergency room, where I was diagnosed with anxiety. I left the ER determined to pinpoint the cause of my stress and overcome it. After taking four days to rest, I started writing again. Instead of focusing on the things that upset me, I focused on the positives in my life. I focused the things I love to do, like gardening, photography, and writing, instead of stressing about things outside of my control. I used writing prompts to help me explore myself. I came to realize writing is not only an outlet for the imagination but also a powerful healing tool. Writing is a form of creative expression I will use for years to come, and I hope college will help me learn to use it even more powerfully than I currently do.

I am all about doing the least amount of work possible in order to succeed. If I can offload my tasks and work onto someone else and still get the credit, I am happy! Getting other people do do my work for me with a smile is an art form in itself, so I definitely deserve to win this scholarship in recognition of the way I succeed without actually working. When it comes to what I want to do with my life, I am interested in shaking people up. I want to be a career author who uses AI technology to write dynamic stories that sink people further into depression, help readers view their miserable lives with gratitude, and alienate themselves from humanity. Pretty much the only obstacle in my way is how much people want to be happy. I can't write to an interested audience without finding people who want to embrace their misery, so I am showcasing how much I love my depressed side by sharing unhappy reels, tiktoks, and videos that connect me with all y'all miserable people in the world! I'm here for you. Embrace your suffering!

Over the past four years, I have discovered I am better at expressing myself in writing than I am in conversation. While I might falter when composing a complete idea to voice aloud, I am confident sharing the same statement in researched writing. Writing gives me the space and time to thoroughly research an idea and present my conclusions logically and concisely. Even if the subject I am writing about does not personally interest me, I enjoy the challenge of highlighting the points that capture my attention and developing a convincing argument. Even more so, if I do not agree with a topic, I enjoy exploring the subject to either pinpoint why I am against it or evolve my perspective into a more informed opinion. I was not always open to different viewpoints and opinions. I used to be a very rigid person, convinced my way was the best way. I learned otherwise when I began sharing my writing on online platforms like Wattpad and FictionPress in 2018. At first, I viewed critical feedback as an attack on my writing. I read negative reviews with a negative attitude and refused outright to understand the reader’s perspective. Critical reception frustrated and angered me. Why were so few people enjoying my stories? The turning point came when I realized that the answer to my question was in reader reviews. I went back to every critical review I received and read each one over with the intent of understanding the reader’s experience. Slowly, I began to see how reader feedback was not a hinderance but a help and, by carefully reading critiques, I could identify my shortcomings and work to improve my overall story building techniques. Increased readership and fewer critiques over the same flaws satisfied me that it was indeed reader feedback I had to thank for my improved writing skills. Now I love feedback and view it as a way to continuously improve my skills. I have evolved into a curious person who enjoys learning about unfamiliar viewpoints. I do not view lack of knowledge as a shortcoming; instead, I seek to understand what I do not know by researching and asking questions. Not only do I now grow as a writer, I grow as a person too. I love examining an opinion from multiple angles, putting myself in other people’s shoes, and trying to more fully understand or appreciate the difficulties of a situation. Overcoming my steadfast opinion of myself and my writing is what helped me evolve into a more experienced, empathetic person, and benefit from the conversation and feedback of differently minded people.