Why I write:

I’ve always been a writer. I was writing stories about aliens and monsters when my mother still braided my hair before school every morning.

I went to college with every intention on entering law school. A few pre-law classes in, I realized it wasn’t for me and promptly changed my major.

While I was undecided, I thought back on all of my favorite classes and they all had to do with writing. I took some aptitude tests at the Career Center, which pointed me in the direction of photography, editing and writing.

I was pondering my future major at home, and knocked over a three-foot-tall stack of magazines in my bedroom. That was my sign. I applied to be a magazine major. I took the entrance test and I was in.

It was sheer luck that I wandered into one of the best journalism schools in the nation. I loved it. I was home. Journalism school was one of the best decisions I could make. I started working at the nationally-ranked student newspaper. I wrote, I took pictures—I loved it.

I graduated, started working at the local daily part-time. I was stringing photos and working the midnight shift sending pages to the printer. A year after graduating, I moved on to be a community journalist at a weekly newspaper the next town over. I’m certain fate gave me this job as fodder for a book I’m supposed to write. It will be a Devil-Wears-Prada type book about working 70+ hours a week for an 86-year-old cat lady, who proudly touted the benefits of her sixth face lift. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and I ran back to college.

Now, I’m an overgrown college student. I write because it’s my job.

I write when I get home to clear my head and to document my life. I’m very manic about my writing: love, hate, anxiety and everything in between.

I might not be the best writer, but all I can do is get better.