In some capacity, I have always been a writer. The heavy boxes of filled journals, diaries, and notebooks stashed around my apartment and my parent's house is proof of that. Now, I go through a Field Notes Memo Book every two weeks and I have no less than six fountain pens full of ink.

I wrote my way through elementary school developing a cursive that later became the foundation of my calligraphy. My mom insists on keeping a twenty-page chronicle of my summer vacation (complete with Yelp-quality reviews of the places we went, Carl's Jr. and Pizza Nova were highlights) that I wrote in third grade. Prolific may not be the word, perhaps thorough is putting it politely.

Pen and paper got me through the bullying and depression that came with junior high and high school. I wrote with a lot of anger and self-loathing, but it still helped me find myself. High school debate taught me how to sharpen my words and wield them in arguments with a semblance of finesse, much to the chagrin of my parents I'm sure.

College saw more notes and a bit more disposable income. I picked up a Lamy Safari my junior year and never looked back. My love for good pens and paper quickly became an obsession (with no help from Brad of The Pen Addict.

I picked up other passions along the way: photography, calligraphy and lettering, running, cycling, but I always return to writing as a way to work through my thoughts. Which brings me to whatever this is.

Given the number of notebooks I've filled (nineteen and counting in 2014), I have something to say. I want to share — my passions, my thoughts, my fears — little pieces of who I am. Sometimes, it will be things I need to hear myself. My hope is that putting them out in the world will make them stick for me, and maybe help someone else too. I can't promise it will always be good, but it will always be me.