I am a writer. I write on napkins and cups and my hand. One time Mom tried to help me clean out my writing stash and gave up because I had an insistent habit of writing on loose leaf paper and then stashing it in the nearest binder. She made me start using specified notebooks. I have a filing cabinet in my desk containing a conglomerate of writings and a shelf dedicated in my closet to old notebooks that have been filled to bursting. At the beginning of the school year, I always buy way more loose leaf paper than needed and pick up a few extra notebooks just because blank, lined paper is one of the most beautiful things I can think of. Not to mention it smells great! And one of these days, all of these random pieces of paper will come through for me. All of that practice and all of those screw ups will produce a novel that sits in the shelves of Barnes and Noble. Maybe even find its place on the New York Bestsellers list. But more than practice and screw ups, my writing is a part of me. It’s the person I want to be and the person I was. It’s my dreams and ideas. It’s my key to making a difference. It’s the piece of me that will stay behind the leave my mark on the world.