Writing down what I’m thinking has been a regular problem for me as far back as first grade, and I never got better at it. One of my earliest memories of school is of my 7 year-old friend workshopping ideas to help drag me across the finish line during free writing period. “It can be anything you want; I just write ideas for new episodes of SpongeBob! Why don’t you do that?” This might be an invention of my imagination, but I remember him looking visibly worried for me while we spitballed writing topics. I loved my cartoons, I loved playing pretend with my toys, and I loved playing pretend with other kids on my block, but no amount of experiences to draw upon or inspiration to tap into could push through the disconnect between my mind and my pencil. My problems with reflection and writing followed me through the rest of my academic career. I’ve received possibly hundreds of late penalties and zeroes for dragging my feet on essays, short stories, and even lab reports, stressing every single one of them because I knew what I wanted to say. Dropping my grade because I was bad at composition tore me up all throughout school, but nothing broke my spirits quite like days before I moved away from Florida at the end of third grade. My first friend ever gifted me a gorgeous journal “to write down your adventures for the next time I see you.” It was jungle-leaf patterned with rough, pulpy pages  and a unique clasp held together with bamboo rods. I think her mom picked it out because it would remind me of our playdates playing crocodile hunter underneath the cabbage palms behind her house. I didn’t write anything in that journal and I was so embarrassed that I never went back to see her again – just in case she asked to see what I’d done with her gift.

I’m trying this for the first time, and I hope I get the hang of it.