Rachel Maxey

There is a word that encapsulates those who devour books like a wide, globed mouth: bibliophile. It sounds cerebral, over-intellectualized. But its implications are performative and full of feeling. Readers who read obsessively and writers who write zealously are like Dionysian mavericks; every process is ecstatic and painful, every production chaotic and musical, and each resulting story serves to combat stagnancy, to propose some original notion or conviction, to introduce a neoteric impression, to advance authenticity and wonder. To write a book is to undergo an ambitious, uninhibited endeavor. Yet, to many, this craft exists separate from prudence. Anyone who wishes to pursue a career in writing fiction will almost always hear that it is a choice of unsound judgment, that it is not a genuine profession, that it is not a viable option. Those like myself, who cannot imagine any other occupation, who refuse to consider an alternative, who are possessed of such a feral passion that any mundane substitute is laughable, are tireless, fervent, and bold in their work. My enthusiasm for literature and the written word has propelled me through various novels, poems, memoirs, essays, articles, and journals. I have written short stories, flash fiction, poems, novellas, critiques, essays, literary analyses, letters, and am in the process of writing my first novel. In each of these areas, the nuances of writing have become fresher and clearer. I feel that I have well-expanded my literary repertoire so that any task will be a favorable challenge as well as a new avenue for better solidifying my experience, knowledge, and credibility as a writer. In the future, I envision an absoluteness to this pursuit, one that will be fruitful and memorable.