Words came to me first in Chinese, then in English. Reading contests, spelling bees, notes passed between friends, diary entries just for me. Words were everywhere, but I didn't call myself a writer.
Images were everywhere too: book reports, handmade zines, school newspapers, a literary magazine. I was always working in both words and pictures. And still, I didn't call myself a writer.
In college, I worked at Borders Books & Music, happily alphabetizing shelves and making staff book recommendations. I interned at a PR agency, spent a summer at a publishing house, and after graduation built a career in visual and UX design. I called myself a designer, but not yet a writer.
And then, I found picture books.
In picture books, words and images don't compete. Instead, they complement and complete. Rediscovering this form felt like coming home to something I'd been circling my whole life.
I've been lucky to call Taiwan, the Bay Area, Los Angeles, New York City, and now Montréal home. Somehow, I always end up within walking distance of a library and surrounded by stacks of books. Looking back, the signs seem obvious.
Today, I write stories for children that help them make sense of the world and offer a safe, cozy place to escape to when needed. Because that's what books did for me.