I was born and raised in Portland during the summer of 1990, on top of the hill as my mom likes to recall. Before the second grade, dad would sit my brother Javid and I down to write essays on African history, or else eat hot peppers as an alternative. I began to despise the blank page and pencil, and started enjoying hot peppers. Over the years my early disdain for writing schemes would lead to an unexpected appreciation for the craft.
Despite my avoidance of writing, I was an avid reader. My dad noticed this and leave a copy of Aesop’s Fables for us kids which opened up my imagination. Not long after, i’d find myself picking up a gig at my elementary school library. This was the perfect environment for a young bookworm. From jet planes, insects, to fantasy and mythology, to distant cultures from far-off lands; the imagination was at peace within the pages of my childhood.
Fast forward a decade and some, i’d embark on a 6 year long journey of creative expression and design which evolved into a realized graphic design practice. Unfortunate for me, soon after the celebration ended I was blindsided by feelings of emptiness and ultimately depression as my days as a pixel-pusher became like a prison of sorts. Desperate for change, I’d end my office lease, didn’t renew my business license and let it all go. This new re-creation of sorts lead to experimenting with micro-blogs. I wasn’t naturally built with the attention span for sitting down and stringing sentences together, literal torture, so I took baby steps. Eventually, like many other writers, the simple act of writing began to feel cathartic to me. It was easy cheap therapy with just enough creativity to feel like I was contributing something to the world.
So where do writing stories come in? Before I learned to write I relearned to read. My first fiction novel i’ve read (and finished) as a young adult was ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho and the second was ‘The Forever War’ by Joe Haldeman, both of which were entirely read while I was on the can. The bathroom used to be the only place I'd be trapped long enough to pass time with a book (they were collecting dust in an old magazine holder in front of the toilet, how they got there still isn’t certain). The next wasn’t until a couple years later, ‘Musashi’ by Eiji Yoshikawa (this was mostly read on public transit), and then the next was read three years later at the ripe age of thirty-one which was ‘Norwegian Wood’ by Haruki Murakami.
These books opened my eyes to the craft of storytelling and unearthed a desire to craft my own. But not until being asked to give feedback on a couple of works written by peers, did the most minuscule thought about writing fiction ever appear. After getting into an international writer fellowship made up of admirable up and comers, and non-fiction vets with the cred and a following to match, I soon found myself out of my element. They used words like structure and foundation to describe a sentence. You’d think we were constructing things, and we were. It was a new language I’d soon fall in love with. Although I joined the fellowship for tips on how to take my blogging to the next level, a few peers from the cohort sent me pieces for feedback on their fiction drafts. After reading them I'd be left inspired and part mind blown. It never really occurred to me before, that actual people sat down and wrote actual stories we read everyday. It’s weird I know. By the end of the two month intensive, I had somewhat of a story in its first draft. A supposed comedy short written specifically for a competition held by the fellowship.
Long story short, I didn’t win. And this was the best thing that could’ve happened. Here’s the unsolicited wisdom: We are what we do repeatedly, excellence is not an act but a habit - aristotle.
The reason for not winning wasn’t due to my story being trash (it actually was) but because it was never submitted. The competition was my initial push but winning wasn’t the true aim. The true aim was to write a story. So eventually with my first draft finally done I nervously passed it along to a dear friend. Nervous because she’s the type that will give you a brute yet casual tongue lashing out of love, which is the type of unflinching love I learned to value.The lashing wasn’t too bad and still, the fact she mouthed the words “…a good start…” and that she was the first person (whom I can ever remember) to call me a writer, was all I needed to keep writing.
Currently
pre-med student ~ Naturopathic medicine interest
handpan practitioner
tea enthusiast
photography
motorcycles
runner