I have to admit that I didn’t read much in my youth. I was embarrassed by my dyslexic mind, and I was too afraid to ask for help. When I started wearing glasses, religiously I might add, my world changed. I picked up a book: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, and from there a passion brewed. After completing the Harry Potter series, I moved on to other things. Fantasy, thus far, peeked my interest, as it would in any young person. I read the Chronicles of Narnia, and moved swiftly to Nancy Drew of all things. A break from reading, due to my overwhelming addiction to poetry.

At 15, I bought Julie Andrews’ memoir, Home: A Memoir of My Early Years. It is quite safe to say that this book changed my life. The woman that I had idolized for as long as I could remember had also experienced many inconvenient, and horrific, things in her youth. Again, Julie, much like she did in my childhood, inspired me. She was no longer just the amazing woman from The Sound of Music, she was Julie - not so different than me; a friend when I felt I didn’t have anyone. Reading that memoir sparked a passion for Life Writing, one that I plan to pursue as a career. Thank you Julie.

Many memoirs have been read by me now; some amazing, and some not worth mentioning.

A name that I’d heard many times, so many in fact that it’s familiarity was nearly comforting, had been said in a university lecture hall: Ernest Hemingway. The curious English major that I am decided to investigate this name. I was not disappointed. I find him wise and realistic. He poured himself into his writing, which is something I can only hope to do. His most famous quotes frequently bounce around in my head, encouraging me to be stronger. I find his blunt honesty, and his take no shit attitude to be quite admirable. He doesn’t idealize life; he says what is. I can only hope to be a fraction as lovely a writer as Ernest Hemingway.