Brief Author Bio:

I was born in the year of our Lord, 1992. It wasn't until twelve years later that I began to formulate an interest in writing. At the time, I only wished to pursue writing as a catalyst for being able to outdo my older brother. Of course, he's probably still the better author and writer in general, and would probably be ready to remind me at any given point. However, as I continued to write various essays, reports, songs, poetry, and prose, I began to write for my own enjoyment, rather than for the impressions of others. Spreading the wings the written word had provided for me, I began to feel the cool breeze of inspiration gliding around the tips of my few feathers. Flying wasn't simple at first, and the winds often tossed me around and battered my weary fingers from taking up the ink-coated feathers that I had lost, and applying them to the parchment that lay before me.
But I do now.
Words come so much easier than they did at first; metaphors flow more freely than they did. The more I apply the pen, the more pleasant its scratching against the paper becomes to my ears. Writing has become more to me than simply a method of competition or a missive to express a point. It has become so much more than that - something irreplaceable.
Something that surmounts so many other things...
Writing has become a lifestyle. As I meander through autumn forests, watching the plethora of varied colors fade away to reveal the naked, disparaging arms of the trees. They were once so beautiful in their jovial array of yellows and oranges, but now their scarred black silhouettes contrast against the pale gray sky. Because of writing, these scenes would have never meant as much, particularly when the trees once again spring to new life with the beginnings of a new season. I feel for the trees. I feel for all the small, seemingly trivial details of this atmospheric environment.
Why?
Well...because I'm a writer.