When I was younger, maybe 9 or 10, I read the book Harriet the Spy. It was then that I began to fill my days with little notebooks that never held many words because I lacked the focus to stick with one activity for more than a few minutes. Although I observed many things, I rarely wrote them down. Realizing what a crummy spy I was, I abandoned my game for another, and that one for another, and so forth. Eventually, however, writing came back into my life and grew from something that I had to force into something that I had to do. Many a high school algebra II class was spent frantically scribbling scenes that never developed into anything more. When not inspired, I was moody, bitter. When inspired, Id sit until my hand cramped, notebook pages filling at lightening speed. One of the best summers I ever had was spent working on an epic exploration of character development. I have those notebooks stashed in my closet. They still smell sweet from the time bug repellant leaked in my bookbag.

I used to have to write for fear of my head exploding. Then life became real and I no longer needed to write. Even when I wanted to, words failed me, blank paper staring up, mocking my emptiness. I dont remember ever being happier. Unfortunately, Im finding myself forced to write again. I suppose this means my life has somehow slipped away into that place where memories go. The less I experience, the more I write. Im currently chained to my notebook which is, in a way, depressing, and in another way, a relief. Fortunately, no one expects much from someone who hides under the bed.