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Why I wanted to be a fiction writer. 

I became a writer because I’ve always felt an undeniable pull to communicate beyond the limitations of time. There’s something uniquely powerful about the idea that my words might one day outlast me, that they could be discovered long after I’m gone. I imagine a child in a library a thousand years from now, pulling my book off a dusty shelf and cracking it open. I picture them getting lost in the world I’ve created, their imagination sparked by the words I’ve written, just as my imagination was sparked by books when I was young. I want my stories to jog their creativity, to send their minds racing with possibilities, even though they live in a time and world so different from my own. The idea that my work could have that kind of impact, helping a future generation dream beyond their own reality, is a powerful reason for me to write.

Perhaps in ten thousand years, when the world has turned to ash, or in a million years when some alien civilization stumbles upon an ancient hard drive, they might uncover my work and try to understand what it meant to be human in this moment of history. I write because, even in the face of the unknown and the inevitable decay of everything we know, I want to leave behind something that could resonate across the ages.

There’s a certain magic in imagining that, through my stories, someone—maybe not even from Earth—could glimpse a piece of what it was like to live in this time. The fleeting nature of existence doesn’t scare me; instead, it compels me to write. I want to carve out a space in the vast, unfathomable expanse of time, where my thoughts and dreams could linger long after the world as we know it is gone.