When I was 9 years old all of my friends wanted to be vets and nurses when they grew up. I had a different dream. I dreamed of being a writer. Looking back I can see this desire stemmed from my early onset passion for books. I admit my juvenile preference for literature wasn't exactly advanced, but still impressive considering I would rather have my attention on the latest Andrew Clements book  than my Nintendo DS. In fourth grade, my class was assigned to create posters with compliments on them for each student. On my poster all were generic appraisals of my intelligence and "coolness". All forgettable except for one, written by my teacher. It said simply, "You are going to be a great author one day." My goal had been to write and publish a book before I turned 16. I wanted to be the youngest best selling author the world had seen. Unfortunately, all my attempts over the years fell short. Between failed tries at dystopian world building, and passionate family tragedies (one entitled "Melancholy Mellows" which I thought was genius at the time. Insert eye roll) I could never quite hit my stride. It wasn't until I got older that I realized why there were so few young authors. It is nearly impossible to author anything even remotely inspiring, if you've had few real life experiences. It isn't until you've experienced real heart break, or love, or tragedy, or loss, or the foundation of the young adult genre HIGH SCHOOL, that you have anything real to say to the world. At 19, I am still young. I have a lot more experience to gain. But through my personal trials and tragedies, I've developed words in my heart that I feel are ready to be shared. I am working on my debut novel and am in the editing process. The story is something extremely dear to my heart, and covers a subject that needs to be addressed and brought to people's attention. Even if only one person reads it, I'll need a time machine. That way I can go back in time to my 9 year old self and say, 
"You did it".