Four years ago, I began writing and reporting. 

 

I stumbled into the journalism room after wandering through campus. I was one of the first students in the room, smiling awkwardly when the teacher told me to sit wherever I’d like. 

 

At the time, I had no clue the room would become a second home to me. I had no clue the newspaper would consume my every thought. I had no clue the staff members would become my family. 

 

The story is simple from there: I honed my skills over the next four years and have grown from the awkward freshman hoping the class wouldn’t be boring into an only-slightly-awkward senior who never wants to stop chasing stories. 

 

Seven years ago, I began writing and reporting. 

 

I sat in the front of my sixth grade English class, pouring over the news for one of our weekly assignments. It was the first time I ever looked into politics, and I was astounded by how skewed different views were. Reading interviews with prominent political figures, I couldn’t stop coming up with questions I wish I had answers for and wishing the stories were less opinionated. 

 

I wanted facts and emotions; I had no care for the particular political affiliations of the reporters. The story continued: I grew up with the same thrum of annoyance every time I saw an ounce of opinion and scrutinized every story I came across. 

 

A decade ago, I began writing and reporting.

 

I was just beginning to fall in love with the world of literature. I traded my short chapter books for novels and series, learning that there are always hidden meanings in every page an author writes. School began to teach us the simple elements of stunning stories — repetition, metaphors and irony. I began to research more. 

 

It was natural from there: I fell in love with the different types of dashes. I pursued crafting stories until they were all I could think about. I dove further into the intricacies of writing until I knew each one like the back of my hand. 

 

My whole life, I’ve been writing and reporting. 

 

I never began it; every start can be traced to something further. I might not have known its name all my life, but journalism has been a part of me for much longer than most things. It has always lingered in the spaces between my sentences and the pauses between paragraphs, or in the aching of truth that came with every poem and short story I wrote. 
 

Writing and reporting has been a part of me for as long as I remember, and, in certain stories, my 7-year-old, 10-year-old and present self collide to create something I try to make meaningful. Those are the stories I shared below — those are what “writing and reporting” means to me.