Throughout my life, I have always loved to write. In fourth grade, I would write fictitious stories in a binder and pass them around the class for all my friends to read. They would beg me for new chapters, and I loved that feeling. I built a community among a group of friends and bonded in silly literature. In high school, I was a sufficient writer. I strived in my classes that required essays. My fictitious stories in the binder throughout high school turned into daily non-fiction journaling. I have archives of my 16-year-old thoughts preserved in thick 6-dollar notebooks from the drugstore. These pieces of writing are my most priced; even if they are immature thoughts about attractions and geometry, they’re mine. Unfortunately, in college, I started to despise writing. I received my first “D” on an essay. It would take me hours to write a paragraph. I turned in every writing assignment late or accepted the failures and incompletes. I developed a mental block, and the journals that would take me three months to fill started to sit on my desk for years. I am not the same person I once was. I am constantly reminded of my old habits, and I have tried to be the 16-year-old writing in study hall or the fourth grader staying up all night working on a “novel.” Instead, I am learning about literature and, in turn, will learn how to be an author again. A great author is developed through reading and understanding. I hope to fall back in love with writing.