Max Phillips
Aspiring author. Fifteen years old. Dreams to put to page.
The Plan.
I am a child. A child, but blessed with a brain banging with bulb-bursting ideas nonetheless. No credentials besides the GCSEs I sit in the summer of 2025, and web projects I have published in the past. But even as a child, I have burning beliefs that refuse to settle for the future, or for mere imagination. So I refuse to wait, and I refuse to give in.
The passion I have for literature is insatiable. The ideas. The critiques. The character studies. Nothing infatuates me more than a story charged with a point. A cardinal meaning. A question it aims to answer. And my mind is constantly bubbling with those questions, gnawing at me from the inside out, daring to be asked. Daring to be answered.
It is my aim to interrogate the human soul. It is my aim to uplift those whose heads are also screeching with questions of authenticity, vice, and virtue, and express emotions and thoughts that have rarely been explored to the fullest. It is my aim to write books that have real intent, real meaning, with real messages that I am yearning for people to hear. I have things to say. And it is my mission in life to shout them from the rooftops.
“All art is a kind of confession.”