Why do you write?

I write because it is the truest way for me to exist. In daily life, we are constantly nudged to be socially acceptable, emotionally manageable—lighter and brighter than what our hearts actually carry. Writing frees me from that performance. On the page, I can exist in my barest, purest form. I can be raw or restrained, dramatic or quiet, poetic or brutal. I can be light or heavy, angelic or wicked. Writing lets me elevate what has mattered most to me and crystallize fleeting memories into something that lasts. That power—to preserve, to intensify, to tell the truth—feels exhilarating and deeply empowering.

More than that, writing chose me long before I chose it. As a child, my imagination arrived fully formed, before I had language for it. By the age of eight, my mind was crowded with characters, images, and overheard conversations from worlds that didn’t yet exist. Writing became the only way to hold them, to release them, to make sense of the strange and wonderful things happening inside my head.

I also write because I’ve witnessed the magic of storytelling. I watched writers turn ink into entire universes. In college, I saw a film adapted from the debut novel of one of my favourite authors, Jesse Andrews—bizarrely funny, devastatingly tender—and it stunned me. I grew up on High School Musical and was electrified by Kuroko no Basket. Seeing imagination translated into movement, sound, and light feels like watching alchemy. Stories don’t just live on the page; they travel. They shape people. They linger.

I write because I want to be part of that magic—and because, frankly, I already am.