I realized today how much I miss writing. I miss the thrill of spying on myself and reporting my findings back to this silly little blog for the world, or maybe just my class, to see. I miss the way it feels when someone quotes my words, deliberately or not. I miss the long, meaningless stares that I exchange with a misspelled word, as I decide whether or not it's right, and whether or not I care.

I miss the way I kick myself inside when I realize that I use anaphora far too often for it to be effective anymore.

Sometimes, I think I might like to write a book. Then, I write the first page, conclude that it is total crap, and return to being a normal teenager whose writing experience does not surpass essays and the occasional news article. But maybe someday.

First, I have plenty of other things to worry about. Like finding a favorite author. I'll admit, I don't read nearly as much as I pretend to. I've told people before that my favorite books include Utopia and Lost Horizon. I'll let you in on a secret: I tapped out after 30 pages on both of them. But they sound mysterious and sophisticated, so I doubt that I'll actually remove them from my "favorite books" list on Facebook.