It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I love to write. When I was younger I dreamt of becoming a writer for a newspaper, but there is a lot more to studying journalism than I took interest in. Perhaps when I am older, I will write on my perspectives of the world and people will eagerly flip through newspapers with inked black thumbs just to read my quips over coffee.
I know that it can only be a fantasy because by the time I’m old enough to have opinions worth hearing there won’t be printed newspapers—unless we’re all very lucky.
All the money and glory aside I really enjoy it. I can blame my sister who struggled to get me to keep a diary at a young age.
I can’t thank my sisters enough for being cool and keeping journals. It gave me the inspiration to write, content with misspellings, and come to terms with my feelings through paper and pencil.
Let me be clear that the fact I (still) cannot spell “diarrhea” angers me to no end. I’ve gotten a bit better. My first journal entry involves me discussing my cold symptoms, such as a “soar thoark.” Maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it was close.
I haven’t counted the number of journals I have filled recently, but I’m fairly certain that I’m close to the 30 journals filled mark.
The picture is most of my journals, but lacks at least four of them.
For me, writing is fun!