They hold all the secrets of the earth, these little manuscripts. Formulas and fictions, fantasies and fallibilities, books have seen it all.

Computers are cold and indifferent. A totality of silicone, transistors, wires, and chips. Powered by electricity, they hold no prejudice. No judgements to speak of. They don’t know that I’m human, can’t see my face; can’t peer into my eyes.

Writing isn’t a gift, but a skill. Something that must be practiced daily, or at least somewhat consistently over time. To be honest, I don’t write every day. Anyone who does is either a maniac or a liar.

I can stare at a shoelace in my mind, tie it, and loose it again. I can move pieces over the chess board, before swiftly forgetting where they were. I can climb a mountain, throw down stones, and freeze them midair with such precision, that I often can’t tell whether or not I’m actually there.

When it comes to self-help and self-improvement, everyone starts off on the treadmill.

After writing several books, this is what I've learned from the journey.

This essay was originally written November 22, 2022 while my sister and I were attending Boise State University for context. I was a freshman, and she was a sophomore. This was our experience as authors (“students”) in the classroom.