It was the turn of the century in a bright room that was messy in the way that only having a toddler around the house can constitute. In the room there were two special items. One of those items was an expensive leather bound journal filled with elegant cursive writing, the other being a pink children’s journal filled with nonsensical scribbles, both lying on the bookshelf. Every night my grandmother would go and grab the larger of the two, then pass the smaller pink one to me as I was bouncing eagerly at her feet. When she would hand me my pink, fluffy pen, I’d dash to the coffee table, where I’d open up to a random page and attempt to write my name. Sometimes my mother would sit down with me and write my name at the top of the page for me to copy, other times I would watch my grandmother write in her fancy cursive and attempt to copy it in a series of scribbles. Those were my earliest memories of writing.