Transformers: Age of Extinction changed everything. My little brain spun tales of the characters I was presented with. I devoured anything related to the transforming robots across different streaming sites. I distinctly recall creating my own stories for the universe I had glimpsed in. Yes, I basically became a fan fiction writer at the young age of eight, but I was obsessed! I crafted my own OCs, adventures, and plot. This even encouraged me to work on my drawing skills to visually see what was trapped in my head. Yet I wanted something different, something more than just these characters and the world they were set in. My obsession spread to other content when I got bored. Transformers turned into Ultimate Spider-Man, then Lego Ninjago, Adventure Time, X-Men, She-Ra, Voltron, and whatever else managed to seduce my heart. Then blam! COVID hit. Nothing new was being made, and my old favorites were not sufficient anymore. I was going through withdrawals badly, leaving me with one thing to do: write and draw. It was simple at first, using movies or tv shows as references when jotting down short stories. Eventually, it turned into scribbling ideas and sketching character designs, ones that pulled away from the projects I had viewed. Ones that were more original than spin-offs or remixes. My dreams would whisk me away at night, fueling my creativity and becoming my muse in a way. Paper was a necessity in my life at this point. Then the restless nights came. I had places that didn’t exist on a map, and conversations of people I conjured haunting me daily. Little time was wasted jotting down ideas when visited by these muses. I consumed literature and media so greedily because I craved both new content and a council with the works of creators who shared my passion. I learned my new addiction wasn’t an addiction, but a passion. My spirit longing for stories that I could not understand at eight years old. Crafting small graphic novel projects for the thrill of it became my normal, even if it took days on end. I love it. It is my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. While I have never met another person who can claim that the Transformers movie shaped their dreams and aspirations, I will always extend a thanks to the franchise for helping me find passion for the limitless possibilities of stories.

My overall goal is to become a graphic novelist, but my intentions right now are to learn the skills and people of the industry. This includes nurturing my abilities in illustration and creative writing to develop beautiful works of art while crafting intricate stories that immerse readers. Of course this means finding individuals with similar interests and those who can mentor and teach me what they know. So I searched for a place that could provide such an environment to interact with others. At the Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design, they offer a specialized program in illustration to teach students how to develop a unique visual style while innovating storytelling. I plan to dedicate myself to my studies and see what I gain. I am especially eager to learn several new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft. While also becoming accustomed to digital art platforms—as an artist who has mainly done traditional works. However, I cannot romanticize the possibility of this future without the plans and financial means necessary to execute them. My family has made it quite known I would finance my own way through college if I chose to further my education, so numbers matter greatly to me. Though the program I plan to enter won’t cost the average of $87,500, I’ll set that as my general budget to leave some leeway for doodad costs that I can’t currently plan for. I know for certain I will receive a $500 recurring scholarship per semester, giving me $4,000 in total for four years as I wait to hear announcements if I won RMCAD’s Presidential Scholarship of $6,650. I won’t hold my hopes high on receiving anything else on how competitive that scholarship is, but I will work diligently to save from my current two jobs and apply to various other outside scholarships to try and lessen the burden of student loans. In addition, attending an early college high school allows me to transfer over some courses to my degree plan, alleviating about $7,400 from my tuition cost ($740 per credit course). This will put me roughly at $65,000 while living on campus. A necessary resource I can see myself needing once I’ve left home is obtaining a work-study position or job close to the campus. I not only want to create a source of income, but I would also like to maintain a level of discipline to not grow slothful from not working, especially if I can have a job that relates to the field I’m trying to enter. The academic resources I would need is understanding the resources available to attending students and how to work their online classroom system. I have various forms of technology that should be applicable to their software programs, but if not, an updated laptop to meet the technical material would be required. I also possess my own car in my name (not belonging to my parents), so I’ll keep driving to places where needed and walking where I can to save on gas and maintenance costs. Then, the basic furnishing and kitchen appliances would be needed for the initial moving-in process so I’m not sleeping on the floor and forced to eat out.

Nothing made sense in the beginning, but that’s normal for a five-year-old to be confused about concepts like math and reading. Though math eventually clicked, my struggles persisted in the language arts to the point my teachers began to think I was less dedicated than my peers, so they spent extra time drilling the principles of reading and writing in my head. Naturally, any dyslexic would despise it. As I advanced in grades, we moved away from picture books, my only helping guide to give me clues to what I was supposed to be reading. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them, forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Placing letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignoring others. I began to fail tests and was held in summer school as a result. I was content avoiding reading and writing like the plague, so I turned to other means in my studies. Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Yet art wouldn’t give me the passing marks I needed, so I forced myself to read. To analyze the strange form of communication that I came to associate with the words I often spoke. During my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching characters. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novels for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. Yet my artistic ability is still a novice in nature. So I searched for colleges and universities that could nurture my skills, providing the necessary environment to interact with others similar to myself. I aspire to see what I can gain, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. Though my dyslexia has made written communication a struggle, I don’t allow it to be the hindrance that it is. I have had to dedicate more hours than my peers studying the English language, reading and rereading all my essays hoping I didn’t butcher a word beyond recognition, and reading lengthy chapter books to help build my vocabulary. So I would encourage others who have dyslexia to maintain the practice of reading like I have despite how daunting the task may seem at times. Because even when I used to hate the activity, I have come to appreciate what you can do with words.

Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. My growing passions drew me to the Art club at my school, regrettably, not many shared my dedication to the craft. I was not met with bright-eyed artists excited to improve, rather, I had to work with a neglected art room and less than enthusiastic students trying to skip sitting in the cafeteria. I had two choices; go back to practicing at home exclusively, or try breaking the ice and motivating some potential artists. I am by no means a confident person. But art is more than just a hobby to me. I live and breathe artistic expression, each more complex than the last. My love for the craft was enough to inspire me to reach outside my comfort zone and take a chance. It wasn’t too long before I became the spokesperson for the club, tasked with recruiting other passionate students to envelope their lives with vibrant and personal works of art. Nobody knew me before I started my crusade to give creative students access to an expressive outlet. I was another “high achieving nerd” that many felt they couldn’t relate to. My transition from a social outlier into a well-spoken figure for the club wasn’t an easy one, but it gave me access to a whole new set of skills I couldn’t have imagined I would be using. My tongue-tied stuttering became fluid, and my personal confidence grew each time I stood at the front of the classroom or club booth, sharing my life’s purpose. The more I had to improvise and work with my peers directly, the less putting myself out there felt like a burden. I could express the value art had on us as a culture, how it allowed us to express ourselves more than just with verbal communication and to show humanity’s history. How it could highlight the beauty life had to offer or bring to light the negative implications we often try to ignore from our ignorance. It could bring to life stories that are often hidden by the endless texts or convey messages through the emotions they influence. I first came to the club in hopes of avoiding the loud chaotic conversations in the lunchroom, but the longer I stayed, the more people came to me. I convinced people to share my passion, taught them, and aided their progression. I can say with confidence that I will ensure there is a safe space for creative expression wherever I go in the future to help foster artistic talent. I want to push the limits of myself and see others grow all the same.

Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. My growing passions drew me to the Art club at my school, meeting others who shared my dedication to the craft. I am by no means a confident person. But art is more than just a hobby to me. I live and breathe artistic expression, each more complex than the last. My love for the craft was enough to inspire me to reach outside my comfort zone and take a chance. It wasn’t too long before I became the spokesperson for the club, tasked with recruiting other passionate students to envelope their lives with vibrant and personal works of art. Eventually, I branched out to the Creative Writing Club. For most of my life, I hated reading and thus writing. The mere activity would bring me anxiety each time I was forced to read. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them. Forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Even while spelling, I placed letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignored others. Some words looked the exact same to me, and still do to this day, but that’s what happens when you have dyslexia. So I forced myself to read and collaborated with other readers and writers to motivate myself until I found an appreciation for literature. And during my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching character designs. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novel projects for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. I aspire to see what I can learn, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. To share my creations with others that also struggle with their ability to read and find a passion for the limitless possibilities of stories.

Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. It was an escape from reality to avoid my breaking family and ignore the toxic words and hits that were thrown. All I had to do was focus on the contrast of colors and bring life to the page to tune out the world around me. But art is more than just a hobby to me. I live and breathe artistic expression, each work more complex than the last. My growing passions drew me to art classes, clubs, and events whether at my school or pouring hours on end watching YouTube videos to learn new techniques. However, art isn’t highly valued in society as a whole, culturally it is, but it can’t save lives or craft new technologies to advance towards the future. My peers believe I’m squandering my intellectual capabilities on little artsy things. Everyone lamenting at my “wasted potential”. I should work towards a real education and a stable career. Regardless, I have no passion for being a doctor or an engineer. As my dad has constantly reminded me that if I find a job I love I won’t ever have to work a day in my life. Despite us both being aware of how many artists struggle, he has never once shot down my dreams but inquired on how I was going to achieve them. When I asked for more canvases, he supplied them. When I mentioned I messed up on a drawing, he told me I was still learning. When I procrastinated on starting a new project due to how daunting the task seemed, he gave me his stern look that told me I was holding myself back. And after watching him struggle, cry, and lose again and again, I know he’s been preparing me for the same hardship I would face. But also how he has been teaching me to stay committed despite the adversity now watching him successfully run his own business. So I know I can enter the field I love and not be abandoned to my own devices and survive on my own.

Nothing made sense in the beginning, but that’s normal for a five-year-old to be confused about concepts like math and reading. Though math eventually clicked, my struggles persisted in the language arts to the point my teachers began to think I was less dedicated than my peers, so they spent extra time drilling the principles of reading and writing in my head. Naturally, any dyslexic would despise it. As I advanced in grades, we moved away from picture books, my only helping guide to give me clues to what I was supposed to be reading. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them, forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Placing letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignoring others. I began to fail tests and was held in summer school as a result. I was content avoiding reading and writing like the plague, so I turned to other means in my studies. Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Yet art wouldn’t give me the passing marks I needed, so I forced myself to read. To analyze the strange form of communication that I came to associate with the words I often spoke. During my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching characters. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novels for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. Yet my artistic ability is still a novice in nature. So I searched for colleges and universities that could nurture my skills, providing the necessary environment to interact with others similar to myself. I aspire to see what I can gain, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. Though my dyslexia has made written communication a struggle, I don’t allow it to be the hindrance that it is. I have had to dedicate more hours than my peers studying the English language, reading and rereading all my essays hoping I didn’t butcher a word beyond recognition, and reading lengthy chapter books to help build my vocabulary. So I hope by being a candidate for this scholarship that I can share my graphic novels with others who also struggle with their ability to read and find a passion for the limitless possibilities of stories. Stories that I too once feared when I gazed upon them.

Nothing made sense in the beginning, but that’s normal for a five-year-old to be confused about concepts like math and reading. Though math eventually clicked, my struggles persisted in the language arts to the point my teachers began to think I was less dedicated than my peers, so they spent extra time drilling the principles of reading and writing in my head. Naturally, any dyslexic would despise it. As I advanced in grades, we moved away from picture books, my only helping guide to give me clues to what I was supposed to be reading. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them, forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Placing letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignoring others. I began to fail tests and was held in summer school as a result. I was content avoiding reading and writing like the plague, so I turned to other means in my studies. Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Yet art wouldn’t give me the passing marks I needed, so I forced myself to read. To analyze the strange form of communication that I came to associate with the words I often spoke. During my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching characters. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novels for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. Yet my artistic ability is still a novice in nature. So I searched for colleges and universities that could nurture my skills, providing the necessary environment to interact with others similar to myself. I aspire to see what I can gain, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. Though my dyslexia has made written communication a struggle, I don’t allow it to be the hindrance that it is. I have had to dedicate more hours than my peers studying the English language, reading and rereading all my essays hoping I didn’t butcher a word beyond recognition, and reading lengthy chapter books to help build my vocabulary. So I hope by being a candidate for this scholarship that I can share my graphic novels with others who also struggle with their ability to read and find a passion for the limitless possibilities of stories. Stories that I too once feared when I gazed upon them.

I hated reading and thus writing for most of my formative years. The mere activity brought me anxiety each time I was forced to read. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them. Forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Even while spelling, I placed letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignored others. Some words looked the exact same to me, and still do to this day, but that’s what happens when you have dyslexia. So reading and writing wasn’t for me. I was content living life avoiding them like the plague. On the other hand, art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Yet art wouldn’t give me the passing marks I needed, so I forced myself to read. To analyze the strange form of communication that I came to associate with the words I often spoke. During my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching character designs. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novel projects for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. So I searched for a place that could nurture my skills, providing the necessary environment to interact with others similar to myself. I aspire to see what I can gain, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. To share my creations with others that also struggle with their ability to read and find a passion for the limitless possibilities of stories.

Nothing made sense in the beginning, but that’s normal for a five-year-old to be confused about concepts like math and reading. Though math eventually clicked, my struggles persisted in the language arts to the point my teachers began to think I was less dedicated than my peers, so they spent extra time drilling the principles of reading and writing in my head. Naturally, any dyslexic would despise it. As I advanced in grades, we moved away from picture books, my only helping guide to give me clues to what I was supposed to be reading. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them, forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Placing letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignoring others. I began to fail tests and was held in summer school as a result. I was content avoiding reading and writing like the plague, so I turned to other means in my studies. Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Yet art wouldn’t give me the passing marks I needed, so I forced myself to read. To analyze the strange form of communication that I came to associate with the words I often spoke. During my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching characters. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novels for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. Yet my artistic ability is still a novice in nature. So I searched for colleges and universities that could nurture my skills, providing the necessary environment to interact with others similar to myself. I aspire to see what I can gain, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. Though my dyslexia has made written communication a struggle, I don’t allow it to be the hindrance that it is. I have had to dedicate more hours than my peers studying the English language, reading and rereading all my essays hoping I didn’t butcher a word beyond recognition, and reading lengthy chapter books to help build my vocabulary. So I hope by being a candidate for this scholarship that I can share my graphic novels with others who also struggle with their ability to read and find a passion for the limitless possibilities of stories. Stories that I too once feared when I gazed upon them.

I hated reading and thus writing for most of my formative years. The mere activity brought me anxiety each time I was forced to read. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them. Forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Even while spelling, I placed letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignored others. Some words looked the exact same to me, and still do to this day, but that’s what happens when you have dyslexia. So reading and writing wasn’t for me. I was content living life avoiding them like the plague. On the other hand, art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Yet art wouldn’t give me the passing marks I needed, so I forced myself to read. To analyze the strange form of communication that I came to associate with the words I often spoke. During my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching character designs. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novel projects for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. So I searched for a place that could nurture my skills, providing the necessary environment to interact with others similar to myself. I aspire to see what I can gain, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. To share my creations with others that also struggle with their ability to read and find a passion for the limitless possibilities of stories.

Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. My growing passions drew me to the Art club at my school, regrettably, not many shared my dedication to the craft. I was not met with bright-eyed artists excited to improve, rather, I had to work with a neglected art room and less than enthusiastic students trying to skip sitting in the cafeteria. I had two choices; go back to practicing at home exclusively, or try breaking the ice and motivating some potential artists. I am by no means a confident person. But art is more than just a hobby to me. I live and breathe artistic expression, each more complex than the last. My love for the craft was enough to inspire me to reach outside my comfort zone and take a chance. It wasn’t too long before I became the spokesperson for the club, tasked with recruiting other passionate students to envelope their lives with vibrant and personal works of art. Nobody knew me before I started my crusade to give creative students access to an expressive outlet. I was another “high achieving nerd” that many felt they couldn’t relate to. My transition from a social outlier into a well-spoken figure for the club wasn’t an easy one, but it gave me access to a whole new set of skills I couldn’t have imagined I would be using. My tongue-tied stuttering became fluid, and my personal confidence grew each time I stood at the front of the classroom or club booth, sharing my life’s purpose. The more I had to improvise and work with my peers directly, the less putting myself out there felt like a burden. I first came to the club in hopes of avoiding the loud chaotic conversations in the lunchroom, but the longer I stayed, the more people came to me. I convinced people to share my passion, taught them, and aided their progression. I can say with confidence that I will ensure there is a safe space for creative expression wherever I go in the future to help foster artistic talent. I want to push the limits of myself and see others grow all the same.

Nothing made sense in the beginning, but that’s normal for a five-year-old to be confused about concepts like math and reading. Though math eventually clicked, my struggles persisted in the language arts to the point my teachers began to think I was less dedicated than my peers, so they spent extra time drilling the principles of reading and writing in my head. Naturally, any dyslexic would despise it. As I advanced in grades, we moved away from picture books, my only helping guide to give me clues to what I was supposed to be reading. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them, forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Placing letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignoring others. I began to fail tests and was held in summer school as a result. I was content avoiding reading and writing like the plague, so I turned to other means in my studies. Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Yet art wouldn’t give me the passing marks I needed, so I forced myself to read. To analyze the strange form of communication that I came to associate with the words I often spoke. During my endeavors, I stumbled across comic books and graphic novels. They made the rows of lines disappear and bled the pages in vivid colors, painting worlds I had struggled to see on my own before. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, I was immersed. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Then I began to write. Scribbling ideas and sketching characters. The restless nights I had of places that didn’t exist on a map and conversations of people I conjured haunted me daily. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images, crafting small graphic novels for the thrill of it. It became my life and blood to see the expanse of my creativity. Yet my artistic ability is still a novice in nature. So I searched for colleges and universities that could nurture my skills, providing the necessary environment to interact with others similar to myself. I aspire to see what I can gain, and what new techniques I can apply to give my stories life beyond the words and pictures I craft to one day become a professional graphic novelist. Though my dyslexia has made written communication a struggle, I don’t allow it to be the hindrance that it is. I have had to dedicate more hours than my peers studying the English language, reading and rereading all my essays hoping I didn’t butcher a word beyond recognition, and reading lengthy chapter books to help build my vocabulary. So I hope by being a candidate for this scholarship that I can share my graphic novels with others who also struggle with their ability to read and find a passion for the limitless possibilities of stories. Stories that I too once feared when I gazed upon them.

Nothing made sense in the beginning, but that’s normal for a five-year-old to be confused about concepts like math and reading. Though math eventually clicked, my struggles persisted in the language arts to the point my teachers began to think I was less dedicated than my peers, so they spent extra time drilling the principles of reading and writing in my head. In the end, I came to the conclusion that English is a strange language. There are consonants, vowels, and phonics. Letters that can never be alone like q with u. Unfortunately, in the English language, we have rules to make sense of this system of communication, but the rules work until they don’t. Naturally, any dyslexic would despise it. As I advanced in grades, we moved away from picture books, my only helping guide to give me clues to what I was supposed to be reading. Words would be strewn together in chapter books when I looked at them. Forming new amalgamations that only my imagination could conjure. Placing letters into words that didn’t belong and completely ignoring others. Some words looked the exact same to me, and still do to this day. I began to fail tests and was held in summer school as a result. I digest words slower than most. I analyze them, comparing them to others in my memory, seeing where I’ve heard or seen them before. Sometimes when I read aloud and stumble at a word, someone reads it for me. It’s so frustrating being corrected, especially since I know the word, it just doesn’t come out the way my thoughts process it. And spelling is no different. I don’t like relying on others for such a simple task—the glares of annoyance and little notes to work on my spelling a constant reminder of my lacking skills. I crave the independence that I could obtain if people trusted in my ability to understand words in my own unique fashion. So reading and writing wasn’t for me. That was fine, I had art to keep me busy. Art had no rules to follow—at least none that you could break. You could draw a line and call it a masterpiece. The small doodles I drew began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resembled humans and animals more and more. I expected to study art my whole life, so that’s what I focused on, my true passion, but I was still forced to read if I wanted to succeed. So I spent more time and dedication consuming words from fiction, textbooks, and instructions, having to put in more effort to grasp the meaning behind what I was reading. Eventually, I began to translate the words into images. No longer were they bland black lines on a white backdrop. I could make the endless paragraphs disappear and replace them with vivid colors, painting worlds that words sometimes failed to. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, it was immersive. I could see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sunset. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. Creating these small works of visual stories was freeing, setting a fire in my heart that has yet to cease. I can share my creations with others who also struggle with their ability to read. No longer do I have to inflict suffering on those who read my works with misspelled words and confusing sentences.

Growing up, school has always been my world. Grades my lifeline. If they were anything below an A, I would start flatlining. Assignment after assignment I put in my all, spending hours on end detailing my work, trying to make sense of topics that otherwise should make me brain dead. Yet I enjoy it. I love learning new things, testing the capacities of my known knowledge, and expanding upon it. My commitment to education has landed me in the top 5% of my class where I can do anything, be anything. And what I want to be is not a lawyer, a politician, an engineer, or a doctor. No, no. I aspire to be an artist in visual and literary form. Art has always come easy to me. Draw a line and you can call it a masterpiece. Art has no rules to follow—at least none that you can break. You don’t have to think or plan or understand, just simply do. I fell in love with the vividness of colors, the sharp edges of lines, and the feel of paper. The more complex the artworks became, the more intrigued I was. Eventually, my small doodles began to form creatures more recognizable to the eye, creatures that resemble flora, fauna, and humans more and more. Words do this too. They’re not black lettering on the white backdrop of a page. The lines disappear and the page bleeds colors, painting worlds I had never been able to see on my own before. Forming elaborate images that spur my imagination. It was art. Art that was more than just visual, but immersive. You can see the sky ablaze in golden hues as the sun sets. Hear the crunch of leaves that disturbed the natural melodies of the forests. However, art and literature aren’t highly valued in society as a whole, culturally they are, but they can’t save lives or craft new technologies to advance towards the future. My peers believe I’m squandering my intellectual potential on little artsy things. Saying I could be so much more. I should work towards a real education and a stable career. Yet I beg to differ. I see the world in color. So when I create, I paint the world with these colorful images and words that can hopefully show a new perspective, to see the world as I do, with so much wonder, beauty, and possibility. I love learning about new things and expressing them with others, which is why I succeed so well in the academic field. I hurt my fingers when I’m scribbling a new writing idea, trying to convey meaningful lessons. I ruin the fabrics of my clothes and burn my eyes out at night to sew together worlds that wish to be freed from the confines of my mind to encourage new awareness. Even if it’s through “silly little graphic novels” I wish to share.