One of the most fundamental aspects of life is stories. Stories that expand our understanding of ourselves and others, telling us to not cry wolf or trust a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It’s a shame I had forgotten that slow and steady wins the race. Working was my coping mechanism for my parents' divorce and the abuse that followed. It was simpler getting lost drawing my frustrations away, writing my trauma into fictional characters, and opening a book to escape to a land of make believe. Yet as I got older, my time was pulled in other directions. A starving artist has never been an attractive future, but becoming a successful graphic novelist was. So I got to business, attending college courses at fourteen while teaching myself the fundamentals of literature and design all while working, volunteering, and nannying. It was productive, efficient, getting everything done so I didn’t have to worry about “the later”. A way for me to save and invest while also expanding my skillset because no one else was going to take care of my financial future. It was a mentality that followed me as I moved states for college. Unfortunately, the workload followed too. Instead of running from past traumas, I was running away from myself. Joining clubs, going to school events, donating, and joining a game studio. I hadn’t even noticed when writing and drawing became quotas too. Just anything to distract from my homesickness, loneliness, and the loans that had to be paid. Yet that wasn’t the issue. My life was on autopilot going from one thing to the next, ignoring all the warning signs my body gave. Ignored the dread each time my alarm sounded for yet another meeting. Ignored the tears welling in my eyes on my way to work until I finally broke down crying. I’ve been told to be a great writer, I have to read. Yet no one told me to be a great storyteller, I had to live. And I wasn’t. I wasn’t going out and exploring like I used to. Hanging out with friends or playing games with my family like I did in my home state. Too caught up in not becoming that starving artist I had painted in my head. Too caught up in taking every opportunity granted, pulling myself down too many avenues in the hope one would lead to safety and security. I became tired, just like the hare who took a nap in the middle of his race with the tortoise. And now that I have woken up from my nap, I remember why I read so many stories and why I wanted to make my own. To connect with people to show them other perspectives to open their minds to the limitless possibilities of the human experience through graphic novels. Teaching meaningful lessons like taking life slow and steady to win the race that we have set for ourselves. It is for this reason that I am grateful to be considered for this scholarship opportunity, and should I be selected, I will use it to advance my education. So once I have completed my course of study, I can continue to write and illustrate to have my graphic novels professionally published.

One of the most fundamental aspects of life is stories. Stories that expand our understanding of ourselves and others, telling us to not cry wolf or trust a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It’s a shame I had forgotten that slow and steady wins the race. Working was my coping mechanism for my parents divorce and the abuse that followed. It was simpler getting lost drawing my frustrations away, writing my trauma into fictional characters, and opening a book to escape to a land of make believe. Yet as I got older, my time was pulled in other directions. A starving artist has never been an attractive future, but becoming a successful graphic novelist was. So I got to business, attending college courses at fourteen while teaching myself the fundamentals of literature and design all while working, volunteering, and nannying. It was productive, efficient, getting everything done so I didn’t have to worry about “the later”. A way for me to save and invest while also expanding my skillset because no one else was going to take care of my financial future. It was a mentality that followed me as I moved states for college. Unfortunately, the workload followed too. Instead of running from past traumas, I was running away from myself. Joining clubs, going to school events, donating, and joining a game studio. I hadn’t even noticed when writing and drawing became quotas too. Just anything to distract from my homesickness, loneliness, and the loans that had to be paid. Yet that wasn’t the issue. My life was on autopilot going from one thing to the next, ignoring all the warning signs my body gave. Ignored the dread each time my alarm sounded for yet another meeting. Ignored the tears welling in my eyes on my way to work until I finally broke down crying. I’ve been told to be a great writer, I have to read. Yet no one told me to be a great storyteller, I had to live. And I wasn’t. I wasn’t going out and exploring like I used to. Hanging out with friends or playing games with my family like I did in my home state. Too caught up in not becoming that starving artist I had painted in my head. Too caught up in taking every opportunity granted, pulling myself down too many avenues in the hope one would lead to safety and security. I became tired, just like the hare who took a nap in the middle of his race with the tortoise. And now that I have woken up from my nap, I remember why I read so many stories and why I wanted to make my own. To connect with people to show them other perspectives to open their minds to the limitless possibilities of the human experience through graphic novels. Teaching meaningful lessons like taking life slow and steady to win the race that we have set for ourselves. It is for this reason that I am grateful to be considered for this scholarship opportunity, and should I be selected, I will use it to advance my education. So once I have completed my course of study, I can continue to write and illustrate to have my graphic novels professionally published.

Nonfiction I send a simple question and my phone starts buzzing. I’m not in trouble, I know I’m not, but a drum still appears in my chest, thumping against my ribcage as I answer the call. My palms are sweaty as I set down the device and turn on the speaker. His voice cuts in, saying “Hey.” “What’s up?” His words are serious—when are they not—when he asks for clarification. My tongue goes limp, thoughts reeling in my brain as I try to remember how to form words again. I take a breath, but my pulse still beats in my ears. I stutter through to repeat my question. Why can’t these calls ever be simpler? Why can’t it be a simple yes, no, or maybe over text instead of him asking, “What do I always tell you?” Many things, but I recite what’s stuck with me the most: “Hard times make strong men, strong men create easy times, easy times make weak men, and weak men create hard times.” “And what do you want to be?” I say, “Strong,” even though I’m not a man like him or my brother. “Now I’m not going to tell you to not chase your dreams”—because he never would—“But you gotta do what you gotta do. Just know the reality is…” Is that I don’t know what I’m doing. I smile to myself, a nervous habit really, and reason I’m happy, that I’m making the right choices, but the churning in my gut says otherwise. “You’re an adult now,” he reminds me. It’s hard to tell when he speaks in that gravitas cadence that sends me back to childhood. But he continues anyways, reminding me of the running rat race I’ve placed myself into, and that Murphy's law is lurking around every corner. Tears prickle at my eyelids. I blink them away. Tears have never made him sugarcoat anything before, and I don’t want to be weak. “I don’t say these things to scare you, but because I care about you,” since the world doesn’t. It couldn’t care less and it’s a scary place. But hard times create strong men, and I want to be strong. For myself and to prove that his lessons haven’t fallen on deaf ears over the years. I manage to say, “Bye, dad, love you,” before the call cuts out. He’s a busy man, and I’m a busy woman as I start sketching out new maps to escape the rat race. But after a few minutes, my phone dings. My unspoken question is answered with “I love you” scrolled across the screen.

Though I love reading, there was a time when I truly despised it. That every time I was given a book and told to read, tears would come to my eyes because the words I saw strewn together in odd amalgamations that I struggled to decipher. The mantra of “I can’t read” soon haunting me and following me for several years. It made learning difficult, had my teachers believing I was less dedicated than my peers, spending extra time drilling the principles of reading and writing into my head, but it didn’t change the fact that I couldn’t read. So as I progressed in grade levels, my language arts skills fell behind, my test scores dropped, and I was held in summer school. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with dyslexia that I was pulled from reading classes and placed into the 504 program. My new teacher broke down words for me, had me using tiled letters to literally separate vowels and consonants so I could sound them out on my own. And slowly, I learned my B’s from my D’s, my P’s from my Q’s, and the overall rules for English, even when they got broken too. But I remember the day when reading just clicked for me. My fifth-grade reading teacher was holding a competition between all the classes to see who could read the most books in the year for a prize. And who doesn’t love a prize? A small spark had been ignited in me because I had to read for the sake of my peers if we were going to win. I went to the library, checking out graphic novels, picture books, and poems, anything that was simple for me. Yet when I completed them, from front to back, they weren’t accepted. Only chapter books were allowed—my greatest enemy. So I sucked it up, grabbed a book with a pretty cover, and told myself, “I’m reading this.” It was a slow start in the beginning, reading aloud, using Audible, or reading with another, but I began to pick up on the words, memorizing their patterns and sequences from the rules I was taught. And at some point, I realized I was reading. Actually reading and becoming immersed in the story, falling in love with the characters and plot. So I grabbed another book, and another, and another, and haven’t stopped reading since. Stories are all I know now. The scroll of words I had once dreaded to see isn’t visible to me anymore. While I still stumble at times, I don’t let my dyslexia define my limits. Changing my outlook and mentality when it came to, “I can’t,” had me asking, “How can I?” And that mantra that had always loomed over my shoulder slowly vanished over the years, being replaced by “I can do this.” Now I wish to be a writer, creating compelling tales for others who also struggle with their ability to read. So, if anyone were to ask me for advice, I’d tell them to be patient with themselves, that reading is hard sometimes, and it’s not always going to be fun, but it’s worth it. It’s worth experiencing all the lessons and emotions that books put us through because reading is a choice on whether you want to or not, not because you can’t. And there are so many beautiful worlds and stories waiting to be unlocked if you only gave reading a chance.

We hasten towards virtue while hampered by vices. I am ashamed to say it; but we worship that which is honourable only in so far as we have time to spare. But what a rich reward awaits us if only we break off the affairs which forestall us and the evils that cling to us with utter tenacity! Then neither desire nor fear shall rout us. Undisturbed by fears, unspoiled by pleasures, we shall be afraid neither of death nor of the gods; we shall know that death is no evil and that the gods are not powers of evil. That which harms has no greater power than that which receives harm, and things which are utterly good have no power at all to harm. (Seneca para 22). Seneca’s 75th letter addresses the diseases of the soul when communicating to his friend, Lucilius. Paragraph twenty-two in particular emphasizes the point of mending the soul by ridding ourselves of desire and fear; however, humanity clings too tightly to these feelings as they guide our way of life. Though I see desire and fear are not inherently bad—quite necessary for having a purpose and keeping one alive—the way Seneca uses them in his writing is seen in a self-obstructive manner. Due to this, he tries to illustrate the ways in which humanity can cure the sickness afflicting our spirits by taking reign of our emotions and not allowing them to consume us. I find Seneca wishes to argue the point of nature versus nurture. It is in human nature to be consumed by sin, to lie, hide, hurt, and work towards one’s own gain at the expense of others. Yet we are raised against this, taught morals and manners, to be selfless at the expense of ourselves. Due to this dichotomy, we try and fail to ignore our nature, to be better than brutes, yet we cling to self-sabotaging ways. Though we try to be rid of our vices, we make so little time to practice and worship honorable virtues. Because of fear we cling so desperately to avoid unsavory consequences and remain consumed by pleasures that only satisfy the flesh and not the spirit. Despite this, we feel our souls rotting out of the coffins of our bodies. Well aware that the greatest harm to an individual is one’s own self, spawned from our fear and desire. Whether we choose to find a doctor and be prescribed medicine, we willingly choose to continue to live in sickness. Our spiritual illness more chronic and serious than we can anticipate with a blind eye, often relying on the input of others to know of our false ways. And how can we not? We blame all but ourselves: parents, siblings, friends, neighbors, and gods for our own faults. As Seneca says, things of good cannot harm, and I believe we often mistake good things for being harmful and harmful things for being good. Does a parent not scold their child so the world doesn’t hurt them in adulthood? Does pain not create growth for betterment after suffering for so long? I believe Seneca sees the need to break away from Earthly experiences and material things to begin to be rid of our vices that leech our time and energy from every pore. Calling us forth to look within for self-reflection to critically identify the “ailments” plaguing us that we are so quick to mistake as “medicine”. It is only then that we can no longer fear such simple things, no longer afraid of death and God as we embrace our end to meet our creator with grace, love, and compassion as He has us, his ruined, spoiled, ungrateful children. Seneca brings a focus to how an individual holds more power than they realize, a matter of mind over body, often losing the battle to body. However, if we take the time to learn to master our fear and desire, emotions that often trump others in actions and decisions, can we take a step towards self-betterment, no longer in the midst of temptation to skew our perspective. This allows for the growth of inner strength to face life’s inevitable turmoils and find fulfillment from the challenges instead of running away from them as we naturally try to do. And once we are out of the haze of the pain we have brought ourselves, we can begin to heal our souls and pour more into aiding others. Seneca, and About Seneca. “Letter 75: On the Diseases of the Soul: Seneca Letters from a Stoic.” Seneca Letters From a Stoic | “No Man Was Ever Wise by Chance” - Lucius Annaeus Seneca, 26 Sept. 2020, www.lettersfromastoic.net/letter-75-on-the-diseases-of-the-soul/.

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.