My character sits in a limo across from a giant praying mantis.

Many of the “plibbles” covering my character’s body from head to toe—little purple tubes with suction on the ends—hold tasty chocolate treats, which the praying mantis eyes, hungrily.

I point accusingly at a small, quivering yellow mass on the limo seat next to us and say, “I don’t think Freddie is here for the right reasons.”

…I am playing “Space Bachelorette” with my friends, and my character just pulled a dirty trick.

I grew up believing there was a ‘right’ and a ‘wrong’ way to write.

I learned that good writing meant nothing if you didn’t follow the rules, and every misstep you took would make your creations stand out like a sore thumb.

The adults in my life acted like this wasn’t a problem—like they had their own easy-to-reference list of rules printed on gilded paper and embossed with the secrets of the universe, nestled in their back pocket at all times. In contrast, I felt like my awareness of writing rules more closely resembled a used Kleenex that missed the trash can and lay deflated on the floor.

Even worse, writing rules seemed to change all the time, and trying to keep up with them felt like chasing an elusive ribbon floating in the wind.

I lived in fear of being “found out” as a fake writer—as a toddler trying to sit at the big kids table.

It wasn’t until 2016, when I attended an advanced creative writing program at the University of Oxford, that I finally learned to throw all the rules out the window.