Acerca de

When I was a kid, being in the house bored me to no end unless I was playing my GameBoy or building forts with my big brother, Mike. Not the biggest shocker, but a side effect of being homeschooled was that I spent quite a bit of time in my home. The outdoors suited me much more than clean carpets and dusty air conditioning. I’d get my schoolwork done as quick as I could so my Mother wouldn’t call me back inside when I’d venture out. The quality of my answers didn’t matter when entire worlds awaited me in the woods.

​

Be home by dusk, my parents would say, and I’d be gone for hours with the sun drenching my skin, bare toes bunching in thick blades of grass. Back then, things were simpler. I didn’t know to care what society thought of the hair on my legs, or the fat on my belly—I carved sticks with Mike and chased plump bees until my chest burned. Those were my favorite days, avoiding rotten leaves as autumn crept in, wading through the murky water of a stream that led deeper into the forest where I swore magic lived.

​

One day, I was back there with Mike on a small shore. Clay walls rose high around us, and up above was an ancient tree, fallen across the pit where we explored. We’d decided to act out a story. Nameless soldiers from an unknown country were attacking us, and we fought them off, ducking and slashing with our swords which were actually sticks. Then I spotted it: a shadow zipped across the sand near my feet. I imagined a massive, growling beast—a fierce secret weapon from the enemy with fire in its soul.

 

“Watch out,” I shouted. “Dragon spotted in the sky!”

​

Mike stopped suddenly, black hair sweaty at his temples. “Dragon?”

​

I was out of breath, still swinging at men who weren’t there. “Yep.”

​

“They don’t exist,” he said. I looked at him, and he raised his brows.

​

Yes, they do, I wanted to say. It’s right there, can’t you see it? But he couldn’t. No one could. A thousand games we’d conquer together, but this one—the one I loved the most—I was the only one who found it worth playing.

​

I don’t know what it was about those creatures, but they became my favorite bedtime story to fall asleep to. Anything and everything dragons. I’d think of myself befriending them. I’d picture myself riding them or being one. Knowing the freedom of the sky. But when I spoke these things out loud, someone would say I needed to get rid of such fantasies, that I should live in the real world. It haunted me for a decade.

​

In high school, a group of boys deemed me the Dragon Girl. By then, I didn’t mind things like that. I knew I was a geek, and the nickname was cool—exactly the persona I wanted. I was proud of what I could do with my imagination, and I became more satisfied each time the hoard of books in my room grew. It didn’t matter what anyone said about my dreams of telling stories, the truth was this: they had no idea what I was. At night, I was a fox in the forest. By day, I was untamed fire. If I wished, I could be mountains and oceans and empires. Because I learned to speak a language far older than words. Instead, I talked through dreams, memories, and symbols. They stemmed from the pads of my fingers, weaving between the keyboard, swiping leaves onto pages. When I wrote, it was as if my soul said, Ah. This is my kingdom. This is my world.

 

That’s where my dragons lie in wait. They’re the stars beyond my sun, the clearest image in my mind when I take ink to paper. They are proud, violent of heart, and endure what I wish I could. With them in mind, I learned I could be whatever I wanted, create a new world in which they lived. And if someone laughs at that, well, that’s their loss—they can continue to live their life as if it’s a prequel.

​

Perhaps, one day, I won’t be told that I will fail, and it won’t be so strange that I am the way I am, or that I see things others don’t. I have my small group of people now, those whose eyes shine with intrigue when I speak of my latest tales. If I mention winged creatures with scales and talons, those people don’t scoff.

​

“Of course,” they say. “You and your dragons.”

 

In the future, I hope that group grows larger. Even if it’s only by one person, maybe two. I ache to share my love for stories with whomever might listen. Until then, I’m reminded at the end of each day that this is the world, and there are those who don’t like that I’m unsatisfied with it, the way it’s empty inside and out. They tell me my gift is worthless. I ask them, who do you think lights the stars when night falls? When you come home from work and need to relax, who allows you to escape your reality?

 

The ones who tell stories.

 

So, what is it you want from me? Do you want my grief that what I write isn’t real? Is it that you want me to speak just as you do, just as everyone else does?

​

No. I much prefer to sing.