A little story about my writing: 

It all started when I was in the third grade. My ESL teacher gave us a little project to do for fun. She gave us a hardcover blank book. She asked us to be creative.

It wasn’t original. It wasn’t creative. It wasn’t even really mine. I copied a book called Germs. I copied the pictures, the words, everything. Page by page, and I was so proud of it.

I remember holding it in my hands, feeling like I had created something important. Something real, something worth sharing. And when it got placed in the school library? That moment meant everything to me. Did anyone read it? Probably not. 

But I didn’t care. I was excited and proud

As I grew older, I loved my English class because I loved writing. There was a time we had to do an assay in high school, and I remember I wrote a story about my father coming to America. I felt so proud telling his story. Some parts of the story were true and some were made up.