I was born a storyteller.

When I was growing up I didn't realize it. It was something I grew up in, like a fish in a fish tank. I lived in other worlds, played the part of different characters, and imagined stories in passersby as a way to amuse myself while the world rolled on and on around me. I was blind to it, it was normal, and there was nothing special about it. This had to change though, and it happened one day very suddenly and I was ripped out of the comfort of my fish tank and shown the world I live in. This specific event was none other than the reading of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. It was in third grade that my teacher read this book to the class, and it was in the middle of our Welcome Back Bilbo party, watching the animated movie and drinking lukewarm cups of hot chocolate and marshmallows, that I confronted my teacher for more books like The Hobbit. My hunger was insatiable, even when my teacher informed me of a continuing trilogy and warned me of its advanced nature, and I pursued The Lord  of the Rings with such dedication and passion that I ended up reading the entire trilogy, including its prequel, eight times between the third and the sixth grade. I was inspired, moved, absolutely changed as an individual. I got to thinking one day in sixth grade after the eighth reading of my favorite trilogy, my pencil hand twitching over a piece of binder paper, and I thought, if I can be changed in such a way by something as simple as a book, moved to tears, anger, and taught lessons about things as grand as hope and failure and as meaningful as friendship and other life lessons, I could, potentially, change people too, just as I had been changed. I could, just by writing stories, change the world. Then I knew: I was a storyteller, and there was nothing to do but embrace it. From the moment I was dropped gasping and fish-eyed back into my tank, thrown back into reality as I once knew it, I understood what I had to do from then on. I had to tell stories. In some way or another, I had to get it done, and get it done I will. I was born a storyteller.

I set out to create stories, spinning them whenever I could and gathering up fodder to rip up and use as tinder for the fires of my own imagination. I devoured every book in my possession within the span of a few days and pestered adults for the stories they had to tell. If it wasn't for the introduction of NaNoWriMo, I might have stayed a dabbler, half heartedly scribbling down ideas in the margins of my class notes. I might have never pushed beyond penciled on pieces of binder paper, shamefully shoved into the shallow depths of my drawers. I might have never heard the tiny insubstantial voice of a character, insisting from within me, beyond me, to bring them to some semblance of living. It was thanks to a competitive invite to NaNoWriMo 2006 from one of my old friends that I took the leap and drowned in the ensuing world of creative energy that would soon become something akin to the pink glassy fluid that enabled Bud to live and sink to the depths in The Abyss.

That's when it really started. Since 2006, I've been working on one main story in the midst of many other ones not as big as the behemoth that's feasting off the bulk of my creative energy. It's a story about never giving up, about fighting for yourself against yourself, and about growing from your mistakes instead of repeating them. It's the story of a young man named Ayuhan Ethereal who's mysteriously trapped in a book, tethered by the invisible bonds of unknown rules to a never ending cycle in which he is forced to fight against an enemy he cannot defeat. His story, though, can only be told with the accompaniment of a reader, so it follows thus that if his reader dies while involved in his world, the story dies with him and the book bound boy must begin again in failure. Six hundred years of this cycle has passed, and Ayuhan's book is discovered by its sixth reader, but Ayuhan, despite his determination and noble intentions is tired and beaten down, standing on the wobbly pillars of a faltering faith and facing the abandonment of his people and followers. The land of the book world is dying, the flock has fled, the monsters are meandering free, and Devian, Ayuhan's mortal enemy, is growing fat on his compounding power and strength. This might be the end.

After throwing this heavy rambling pile of pathos at you, it's about time I finally reigned myself in towards the point. The point is...

The point is...

The point is...

The point...

The point is...

...Not dolphins, but fundraising.

The Office of Letters and Light, the creative geniuses behind NaNoWriMo, Script Frenzy, The Young Writers Program, and other small branch creative projects, is a nonprofit grassroots company who rely on the fundraising and donations made by avid supporters of insane creative pursuits. They give superhuman amounts of dedication and work to make all these events happen worldwide, inspiring ordinary and extraordinary people all over the world to engage in the insane literary act of writing a book of more than 50,000 words in just 30 days. Just 30 days! I've been a part of this mad typing and writing frenzy since 2006 and each year I've completed the challenge as a winner, hoisting my growing manuscript high over my head like it is the newborn lion king Simba. NaNoWriMo has seriously changed my life and myself as a person. Now, not only am I a far better writer than when I started, but I am a hardworking and aware individual, developing problem solving skills and empathy, as well as cultivating the motivation to complete projects and set goals for myself so I can make better use of my time than sitting in front of the television waiting for my bedtime. One day, I'm going to change the world, subtly or with a loud resounding clap, and it started here with the humble, eager, and overambitious writers that make up NaNoWriMo.

As an avid and loyal participant of the program, it is my duty and joy to help fundraising for the Office of Letters and Light. It's all I can do to give back for the life changing experience they've given me and continue to give me as the years of its creative reign roll on. But I can't do it alone. I can spread the word. This is where you, the donor, comes in.

By donating to the cause, you not only support the writing frenzy to continue on for another year, but you will also send me to San Francisco's Julia Morgan Ballroom for NaNoWriMo's fundraising party, infamously known by we loyal participants as the Night of Writing Dangerously. Dressed in all shades of apparel, encouraged to wear noir costumes and attire, 200 writers converge on the night of November 20th for an evening long writing extravaganza, where we will gorge ourselves on sweets, delicacies, and all manners of delicious fattening food and caffeinated drinks and write for several hours straight, a huge congregation dedicated to the literary abandon and merriment that is the heart of NaNoWriMo. It's a grand experience, to be locked in the middle of it all, a proud and tightly woven community all hovering and slump shouldered over hot keyboards and sizzling screens, frantically typing as much as they can in every minute that passes, waiting anxiously for the dinner bell to ring because the smells wafting from the kitchen in the ballroom have been teasing their senses for the past hour.

But we must fundraise $250 to get in the door, which is totally worth it in my opinion, if I can help such a cause as this. I would be terrifically honored if I was able to make it again this year, and that means I rely on you, the good donor, to help me there.

Anything helps. You can donate as little as $5 to as much as you think I'm worth, and anything towards the cause would be greatly appreciated. It's a tax deductible donation! It all goes to the continuation of the event, inspiring writers and writers to be of all ages all over the world, which is as great a cause as they come: Saving imagination.

So thank you, for everything you may give, and thank you for helping me slowly but surely make the world a better place. It means all the worlds I may write about to me.