When I was seven years old, my parents would occasionally poke fun at their young daughter. I had found a hobby which they considered unconventional— I would spend hours in my basement, pacing between walls and talking to myself. Or that was what it looked like to them. Little did they know, I was keeping myself highly entertained by “telling stories.” While jumping around on our old couches, a child’s version of parkour, I would conjure make-believe characters, cities of other worlds, and storylines. Storylines that never had any conclusive endings, but gripping climaxes and depicting characterization. I would tell of everything, between fantastical royalty and elusive American spies. The narratives just came to me. Since then, I have learned to write and to write well. My world changed the day I wrote my first paragraph. Suddenly, my conjectured fantasies were existent, tangible, even. I poured anything and everything out onto notebook paper. My thoughts. My visions and dreams, my scathing, prepubescent anger. And especially, my stories. The characters and zig-zag plots. I fell in love with the simple action or putting pen to paper. Writing became an outlet, as it was a language I finally understood. Everything from the punctuation and grammar to the themes and editing— it enticed me. Little did I know, I had found an unprecedented passion which has only accumulated throughout the years of my adolescence. I not only appreciate great literature, but I also love to write in every way. Never had I imagined that my love for writing would eventually morph into artistic expression. Never had I imagined that writing would serve as my means of remaining sane. Writing is one of the most intimate forms of art. When someone writes, whether it be for studies or ingenuity, they are unveiling themselves. Recorded words hold deeper depth than most understand, for scribbled words may go unuttered. Writing has a way of subtly exposing people for who they are and what they believe, a space for sincere and raw honesty. To me, writing elicits words buried in my heart that never quite reach my lips. I see this in work other than my own, as well. There is hardly another way of intimacy like spilling one's soul onto paper for another to review. Writing is idiomatic. Writing grants every literate human a voice, the liberty to pen whatever they want. Furthermore, writing grants an independence to bare thoughts, ideas, and personal narratives with the world. Writing gives everyone an equal opportunity for expression. In our modern world, the ability to communicate is heavily dependent on words, phrases, and documentation. We rely on newspapers to stay informed, textbooks to stay educated, literature to stay challenged, and even emails to stay in touch with one other. Writing is, by far, our most direct form of basic communication. Yet, what infatuates me about writing is its sheer subjectivity. The art of composure is forgiving, as well as inclusive of the individual voice. Writing is a craft that allows room for limitless creativity. I have undoubtedly fallen in love with writing. Currently, my future feels all too uncertain. But one thing is definite—I will remain a writer. At Purdue Fort Wayne, I plan on majoring in English, and I also aim to join different writing and literature organizations. I pray to find the opportunity to publish my own work, someday. Conclusively, words on paper can barely express how grateful I am for my ability to write and create. Writing has been a gift to me. This gift is something I know I will continue to pursue.