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did i have an affinity for it? yes. did i write often? yes. but was i good at it? was english my best subject? was it even my favorite? no, no, no. as a kid, i lay claim to the title of author. i liked writing, and authors wrote for a living, so that was my dream. i wrote books on white papers, folded in half and stapled by an adult. i scrawled half-formed narratives and colored my fantasy worlds in crayon. i “collaborated” with others my age to create whole storylines, with plots we often disagreed on. most of the stories were based on us: sometimes we were cats, sometimes dogs, sometimes fairies. i rediscover those booklets every now and then when i’m cleaning my closet. i clearly didn’t show any mark of prodigy, but i certainly was prolific. even scrolling through later works online, from junior high, i can never quite label those works as “good.” the plot structure is laughable. exposition dumps are evident and everywhere. it’s obvious to me, looking back now, that the only person

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• Alice Zuo