Dear composition book,

I used to write in you every day.

You knew everything.

I told you my dreams,

my fears,

my fantasies.

You have works of fiction and nonfiction inside of you,

all told by me.

But you’re only filled halfway.

I got my own laptop one day and I started typing instead of writing.

I neglected you.

I left you on my shelf for a while, still opening you to reread some of my past work occasionally. Then you were covered by some books.

Then I stuck you in the closet.

The dark closet full of other forgotten items.

You never got to experience my writing mature.

If you read what I wrote now you might not even recognize me anymore.

I’m sorry for abandoning you.

Without you, though, I may have never even started writing.

The stars on your cover called to me and inspired my first written work: Gold Star.

You are the reason I started writing and I don’t regret a single thing I wrote in you,

even if some of it is quite embarrassing for me to read now.

This is an apology letter,

but also a thank you note.

I don’t know who I’d be without you.  

Sincerely,

A.C.