As a child, I flirted with books. I admired the glossy, sleek covers, the fading, tarnished colors, the raw power that I believed lay inside the pages. My childhood with books taught me this:

A book is much like a portal – it opens into a new realm, a mythical world, a coveted secret.

A book is much like a truck – it transports, conveys, carries, delivers.

A book is much like a pillar – it is a solid foundation, stable, ensuring that society does not come crumbling down, preserving knowledge in its depths.

A book is nothing special in itself; it cannot write itself; it cannot pick up the pen and compel others towards an action; it cannot singularly concoct a dreamland to disappear into. The pages of a book hold no power, neither does the binding, nor even the letters, which are just ink – essentially.

But the writer – the writer holds the power. The writer has the world within her grasp; the writer may fashion the ordinary letters of the alphabet into something extraordinary; something captivating; something formidable. A skilled writer may topple pillars, build portals, preserve society – all of this, in the way she forms her words, is undeniably influential. Words that dance on a page, words that inspire the most gorgeous of poetry, words that rage with searing intensity, words that set a page ablaze – these are what a writer holds control of; this is their power.

Power is almost too unstable to hold: it is greedy, it yanks, it tugs, it destroys. It is perhaps the greatest responsibility, yet the greatest immunity. But sometimes, you do not choose power, just as you do not choose your passion. How can one choose something so natural, so inherent, so personal?

I am a writer. That is my passion.