I started a journal when I was twelve years old. I had just finished reading the book, “Harriet the Spy” by Louise Fitzhugh. I was so intrigued by that precocious 11-year-old writer and aspiring spy. I thought I could be just like her.

I don’t write in my journal every single day, but I write down the big stuff. And the little stuff. My journal (actually I’m up more than 50 journals now) is filled with observations and feelings, poems and pictures, boyfriends and breakups. It’s pretty much a portable therapist. I find it comforting to take a few moments to reflect - or bitch - about the day or someone or something that happened. I can immediately get something off my chest, and no one’s judging.