It's past midnight. I can't sleept. One of those nights when I can't get my brain to shut off. I really need to stop watching TV at night. It's cold in here. I'm wearing Kristofer's bathrobe; I'm glad he left it here. I was thinking of him; of us...about getting married and what it might look like. I pictured luminarias all around the church, candles and my Kristofer, standing at the alter in a tuxedo just smiling at me. Sometimes I think I'm too excited for my future, that I don't put enough thought into the present. Ironically though I don't dwell too hard on the past. Fragmented memories of the most random occassion might creep into my head. Like playing barbies with Amanda Gilstrap and making houses by outlining the walls with connecting crayons from my enormous pink plastic box of color-assorted bags of crayons. I remember getting in trouble once for venturing too far out of the neighborhood with a new playmate I barely knew and no long remember. There was Destiny at the bus stop, with her death breath and beauty queen mom. There was Daniel, playing the violin while I danced around. And Power Rangers (I was always the pink ranger; this was before the white ranger came along and who knows who they are now), and Smurfs, and cars, and train tracks and race tracks, chalk cities and climbing trees, making forts and swings and playing pirates, school, but never house. Funny though, we did play "college". I guess those memories aren't so random. I suppose they're really just the make-up of a childhood. It took me a long time to let go of my childhood, maybe because I always knew how great it was. And now here I am, dreaming about my wedding, thinking about children. At the fair age of 20. Maybe because I know I'm lucky. Lucky because I know I won't be 30 and still single. Lucky because I've already had the fortunate experience of finding someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. Even in our worst of days, they become the best of days. I think what really began this memory jog and dreaming of weddings is a shameful attempt at brainstorming. My inspiration has been a bit dry lately and I need ideas. Suddenly writing--story writing--is hard. I feel like I'm missing things; the connections, the meanings, the talent. Again a memory, sitting on our old gray couch in the den with and old lap-top, I remember exactly the moment I began my first novel. I wanted to write about something fictional and quirky; about Cupid. So I did. It was long, it was cute, and it's more than likely perfectly awful, but I find it amazing that I remember starting it, and more amazing that at such a young age, I wrote so long and finished it. I wrote one novel every summer for at least three summers in a row, maybe four. And then it stopped. But I've been holding out all this time under the belief that I am in fact a writer. Well, no one ever said love was easy. And yes, this is still passion of words we're talking about. I guess I just need to keep pounding out ideas, jotting down scenes, scenarios, and characters until something grabs me and then work it to death. Writing is pain, like all true love is. Carrie