I knew I wanted to be a writer from the time I was 11. I had just seen The Phantom Menace, the first and arguably least bad in Star Wars’ regrettable prequels. Then I went back to see it again. And again. And again, and again. All told, I saw TPM (as we used to call it on the message boards I frequented) 12 or 13 times—in theatres. 

And no, I didn’t have many friends. 

The movie wasn’t the absolute worst, but it could have (and should have) been so much better. Its mediocrity didn’t keep my imagination from running wild, and I started to fill notebooks with characters and worlds and starships all my own. Admittedly, the output consisted of unimaginative fanfiction that saw me insert myself into the story as a character. In my defense, I’ll remind you that I was 11.

Writing opened my world. It let me start to imagine different people and places and ways of living. Writing stories of ordinary people in exceptional circumstances helped me begin to nurture the courage and resilience needed to hold on through my teenage years—a difficult period for many or most, made all the more difficult by the isolation of growing up queer in a time and place that saw my difference as dangerous, rather than something to honor. 

Writing came to me at exactly the moment I needed it. I believed then and I believe now that writing connects us—not only to one another, but also to ourselves. It forces us to slow down and consider our words. It allows us to go back and revisit our thoughts and find kinship and connection with our former selves. It gives us a chance to smile a little as we start reading a sentence penned years ago, but whose conclusion still comes readily to mind after only a few words. And it gives us the space to dare to imagine who it is that we want to be. That’s something I needed as a queer 11-year-old walking out of the theatre at Studio 28 after watching TPM for the thirteenth time, and it’s something I need still today.