Words make me feel less alone. They’re clunky and delicate. Cluttered and fluid. Spiraling into existence, messy, haphazard, glorious. They collect dust and drip with life. They freeze moments in time.

So, what do I want to do with my life?

Well, since it’s highly unlikely I’ll never fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a moth (I was five), I’ve landed on a solid second option: telling a damn good story. The kind meant for all kinds of people, from all kinds of places.

I want to get words on a page. Make people see themselves in them—whether it’s in a song, a script, or a tagline. I want to bottle up this strange, fleeting human experience and give it shape through these little symbols we call language.