I never wanted to be any of the characters I read about in books. While my friends bought Disney dresses and sang karaoke, I was fascinated with the idea that someone had written those movies, and that every single book I loved had its own author. 

“You want to be Pinkalicious?” my uncle asked, when five-year-old me indicated the book’s cover. No, I wanted to be the other names—the ones in tight letters under Pinkalicious’ armpit. “You want to be an author?” he revised, and I nodded, sunshine to his skepticism.

*

One of the strangest things I do as a writer is write the vast majority of my writing on the Google docs app on my phone. Most writers use their laptops, some write longhand, but I often find myself too busy to sit down and formally write. Instead, I’ll write in the dark in bed, where the nearest tool is my phone. Or I’ll write during the five minute walk from class to class at school. Or I’ll write in the car on the way to dinner. Writers are often astounded by this fun fact—and are even more shocked when I tell them I type with a single finger and not with my thumbs. Perhaps they cherish the act of writing too much to treat it as a half-thought. But for me, writing is an explosion of ideas. I’ll write whenever and wherever I can because I won’t let anything get in my way.

The best dreams are balloons. You knot a promise around it and hold onto it tight. You don’t let it go; you pump it full of hope and resilience. My big balloon was formed by a dream I had one day in ninth grade.

In the dream, it was spring, and I had just turned sixty-two. I was revisiting my childhood home—the bedroom I currently live in. My hair was mostly gray and loosely tied, I wore a bright-colored wrap dress around my body, which had grown plump like my grandmother’s. I could feel my own weight with every step I took. It was bright in the dream. The sunlight through the bedroom window was a blinding flood, washing out most of the details in the room, but I could still pick out the teal bird decals on the wall and the floral sheets on the twin-sized bed. I headed for a tall white shelf, aware of a few people following me in. When I reached the shelf, I saw that it was empty except for a single row of books each labeled with my name. With care, I took a book off the shelf, rubbing my thumbs over the cover, and turned to the people behind me. They were younger than me. These were the people that had read my books and made this dream possible. “This is the first book I ever published,” I told them, and felt my smile widen until my teeth were as bright as the sunlight.

So, that’s my balloon. Sixty-two and smiling, with a couple of books that some people enjoyed. If I keep filling my balloon, it’ll rise into the sky with me in tow one day. I’ll see you then.