Tulip Moody

I became a writer not because I thought I’d dazzle anyone, but because I fell hopelessly in love with words. Imagine a kid with dyslexia turning into a logophile, someone who hoards syllables like treasure, someone who repeats a lovely phrase to hear it fizz in the air. Some words tickle my ears, others settle in my chest, and I keep collecting them the way some people collect seashells.

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I wasn’t always this way. It took my grandmother’s voice, steady, warm, a lantern in the dark, to forge me into the storyteller I am. She read to me until the world of books felt like a second spine, and from that magic I wrote my first tale. 

And then there were my sisters, a whole cohort of adventurers who bravely read every scrap of dribble I dreamed up. They listened to every wild tale, every half-hatched idea, every midnight epiphany. They even took up their pens beside me, helping build whole worlds that still glow like constellations in my heart.

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To this day, I still buy both the book and the audiobook, letting the story live twice, once in my hands, and once in my ears. I write because it feels like breathing in a language that finally belongs to me.