I’ve recently stumbled across one of my old composition books that I’d written in as a high school freshman. Any free time I was given, I’d scrawl in the pages. Sketches, notes, stories, anything that I could think of. My friends would always make fun of me because while the other kids would whip out their phones or iPods or do things that weren’t considered “socially awkward,” I was always socially awkwardly sketching or writing in this composition book.

I don’t even remember writing the stories, but they blew me away. I used to be able to manipulate creative language so wonderfully, and now I feel like my writing has amounted to pretty much nothing. I feel like a well that has gone dry; a tree that is no longer fruitful.

I wonder what used to inspire me so much. I wish that this inspiration would still visit me now. I wish I could still write like I used to.