The first time I grabbed a pen, I was just four years old—tiny hands, big dreams, and absolutely no clue what I was doing. Growing up in a home where art wasn’t exactly a thing (and where my grandparents lived only in the stories I heard), I started scribbling on whatever I could find. And trust me, in a poor household, pristine white paper was a luxury we did not have.

So, what did I do? I got creative. The backs of old papers, scraps, newspapers—if it had a surface, I was drawing on it. Nothing was safe. If you had handed me a tax document, I probably would have doodled on that too.

Then, something magical happened. I stumbled upon a couple of books that changed everything. The first was my late grandmother’s Hungarian history book, with a cover so beautifully decorated in gold and national patterns that it looked like a treasure chest. I couldn’t stop staring at the illustrations, flipping through the pages over and over again, completely mesmerized.

The second book? An illustrated Bible. Now, my family wasn’t religious, but wow—those illustrations? Gorgeous. That book quickly became my second favorite.

From there, it was a slippery slope into a lifelong love affair with fairy tales, mythology, and history. I was hooked. The epic battles, the magical creatures, the old-world charm—it all fueled my imagination. And just like that, little me, armed with a scrap of paper and a half-broken pencil, had found my passion.

Who knew a lack of paper could lead to a love for storytelling and art? Life’s funny that way.