a bunch of pages.

I am, yes, a writer. I mean, you knew that but I hate admitting it sometimes. Or, really, displaying it. Yesterday we had to do a writing prompt for school (btw: 12 days!!!), and I wrote two and a half pages of my messy, loopy, second-grader-esque scrawl while my friends all managed a page, if that.
But really where I've been gaining somewhat of a notoriety for my writing is in letter-writing.
One day a few weeks ago, when I was in a particularly crummy mood, I sat down in social studies and began penning a letter to my grandmother. We had a substitute, so it wasn't hard to ignore the boring video we were supposed to be watching and instead watch as my mixed-up thoughts turned into words on the paper. It's more of a revelation to myself than anything, a way to sort out my feelings. For the past three weeks I've been writing it in my free period in school, under the watchful eye of Ashley, who was probably waiting for me to burst out into tears again, which is what I did the last time I wrote something particularly emotional in school. I wasn't sure whether to send it, and today I decided I'm going to.
It's pretty long...fourteen pages, I think, front and back. I'm going to make a copy of it to keep for myself, so that when I'm twenty-eight I can go back and laugh at myself and what I thought the world was like. For now, though, I'm content to send the letter and possibly put its contents behind me forever. Maybe I'll bury the copy of the letter and dig it up in fifteen years, like a time capsule. Either way, my letter is almost done and I'm pretty sure sending it is the right thing to do.