22 June 2020
For most of my life, I didn't want to call myself a writer. Not when I was a kid, scribbling at night in my notebook, writing stories about dogs with wings, or changing the endings of Disney films (what if Princess Jasmine just ran off with her tiger?). Not when I was a teenager, trying my hand at thinly-veiled satires of my parents and friends. Not when I was in college, taking workshop after workshop, talking myself into an independent study with a novelist I admired, amassing copies of The Paris Review and taking copious notes, writing for and editing two different campus publications.