When I was in high school I used to write stories when I should have been taking notes. I would scrawl tales of romance and teen love across my spiral-bound notebooks for hours on end. My teachers never suspected–at least in my mind they didn’t–because I looked like I was taking notes.

Luckily for me, I was a decent student even without paying attention.

Sometimes, I would share the stories with my friends. Sometimes, I would write stories specifically for them. If someone was having a bad day, I could create a little escapism for them during first period Physics.

Most of the time, I wrote for me. I wrote because there were people in my head who wanted me to tell their stories. I wrote for the pure joy of it. There is something so satisfying about putting pen to paper. I can still feel the pressure of making the two little curved lines of a quotation mark

I wish high school Margaret had thought to keep some of those tales. It would be interesting to go back and read what my seventeen year old self needed to write. I am sure most of it was unrequited love for Ryan H., who I adored from afar. He was the cool basketball player, I was the somewhat shy, bookish girl who was in the choir. There’s a story there.

I guess there’s a story anywhere if you look hard enough.