My Capstone Project was truly a labor of love. The idea for With Love started about a year before I even entered the Capstone class. I loved writing and I adored weddings, and I thought there was no better way to merge those two than through an elegant, beautiful, meaningful blog. Then the plannng began.

When I first arrived at the University of Michigan, I considered myself a fiction writer. I wrote about good people with human struggles, strong emotions, and enduring love. I had a host of characters living in my head and a wealth of stories filling my writing notebooks. However, I hadn't yet considered the complex relationship between author and reader and I didn't think about who my audience would be or how I would reach them. My writing was my own and I kept it completely private. I had a long way to go to become a creative writer. But through my experiences over the past four years, I have gained the confidence to share my work, acquired the ability to examine my writing critically, learned the skills to tell a sentimental story believably, discovered what matters most to me in my own writing, and found how to identify an appropriate audience for the types of pieces I want to write.

About the Writer:

As a writer, I adore details, the little things that fill out a story and make up a life, the small moments that take your breath away and stay wrapped up in your mind forever. I write to capture moments--big and small, special and simple, planned and spontaneous--and to preserve lives, because everyone deserves to have their story told and remembered.

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I write because I need to, because something inside tells me I must. It’s an impulse deeper than most of my survival instincts—since I can write through extreme hunger, thirst, and sleep deprivation—because the words have to be written. And this need to write isn’t fleeting; it is always there.


            From the time I was a child, I have always loved to read. I craved the words that my mother and father read to me. Words had power over me, and it only grew as I got older, until I found my power over words. Now, each book I read fuels my desire to command the words in my own way, my reading pushing me to be writing.




The serif font slips and slurs before my eyes. I’ve been reading for so long. The words continue on. The textbook will never end. The publishers have found a way to enfold an entire universe between two cardboard covers of an educational edition. I check the reading assignment again. The number of pages I am supposed to read has increased in the last few minutes. My eyes reluctantly return to the right page and move back and forth over the lines, managing to read more. But I should be writing.


I need to write.