ScarlettLucian

Canada

I am a novelist, a poet, a playwright, and a reader. Several of my scripts have been performed and I have written two novels.

Message from Writer

Words are my life and art-form. As a writer, I aspire to be a cross between Margaret Atwood, Maggie Stiefvater, and John Green. With a touch of Taylor Swift. I believe that reading should first and foremost be for enjoyment but also serve as a way to explore the big, existential questions of what it is to be human. I aim to do this through threading common experiences with fantastical imaginings of what life could be like. Grit and magic. So that my readers can connect, but also dream through my words and be given the hope that we all can have fairy tale endings, no matter how terrible the world seems to be. We can always hide in books, but it is an author's ultimate goal to bring those fictional worlds to life

veins full of ink and bones made of dreams

October 18, 2020

PROMPT: Why I Write

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I write because my soul is made out of words. Ink runs through my veins. Blazing dreams harden into creamy bones. To know me is to read my words. My lyrics, my prose, my creatures. 
Some say to write what you know. Others say to write what you want to know. I do both. I write to reflect and mourn and celebrate who I've been. I write to understand and wonder and enjoy who I am. I write to predict and dream and marvel at who I will be. Who I could be. 
Strange black squiggles on a page are somehow the truest thing I know. The best way I can know someone else's life and struggles. 
Words are a magic of their own. They make me fall in love and cry and hurt and laugh. How? I will shrug, smiling helplessly. I don't know. No one does. 
I write because it belongs to me. Every word in the tattered notebooks stacked on my shelf. Every lazy text. Every smudged reminder on my forearm. Every twisting Word document. Every scribbled grocery list. I'm leaving my mark. Little fragments of me scattered across the world. In dusty corners of the internet. In forgotten letters pushed to the back of drawers. In a message on a theatre wall, cramped in among so many others. Mine. 
Maybe someday no one will know my name. Maybe someday there won't be anybody to know my name. Maybe names won't even exist at all someday. 
But my words will. Scratched onto rocks. The memory of them drawn into sand. Carved into tree trunks. 
But you never know. Maybe they'll be kept in libraries. Read aloud to captivated audiences. Make other people fall in love and cry and hurt and laugh. Help them feel a little less lost. Like other peoples' words have done for me.
I write to be known.

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