I remember being in the second grade and having a composition notebook filled with english notes and stories. Even then the words flew off of me like paint splattering a canvas. I started a very special story to me that inspired me like no other during that year. It was over eight pages long, which at the time seemed as if it was fifty pages. I was so confident in this masterpiece that one day I hoped to get it published. Years later I found the story I was passionate about, I looked it over and it is probably one of the worst stories I have ever read. Even so, it holds a special place in my heart because that story was the one that started the spark in me. Writing is familiar and always welcoming. Writing is the friend I have known forever, and despite growing apart, I can always come back to them. It is the friend that even after all the time apart, no matter how long it has been, it is like we have been together the whole time. I feel as if I can always come home to writing, even if I have neglected it for a long time. Sometimes circumstances such as writer's block or busy schedules can keep me from coming back to my writing home. Inspiration will strike at the most random of times and when it does the pages will always be there for me to flood out into