I started my first journal in the seventh grade. It was a wide-ruled yellow notebook leftover from sixth grade english. Every night in my blue flannel pajamas, hair pulled back and zit cream on my face, I would dump my pre-teen soul onto it’s spiral bound pages, dishing all of the latest middle school gossip and lining the margins with doodles that I learned from the cool kids in class – the pre-digital era emoticons of my junior high days. I wrote about the best and worst moments of my daily life. Nothing in between. As a twelve year-old, there…
