Writing is good for me

10 years ago, I quit playing basketball, which my identity up until then, had been wrapped up in. I’d broken up with a girl I was convinced I was in love with.

I was depressed, though I didn’t know it at the time. I was living in Florida, an unfamiliar setting to my story, devoid of anyone to talk to.

I opened the notebook I was using for class, to the back where the empty pages were. In red ink, scratched words in a spiral shape, starting from the outside, until I reached the center and couldn’t write anymore. I did the same on the next page.

And the next and the next.

Until I didn’t have anything else to say. Until the words negated the sadness.

That next semester, back in North Carolina, I signed up for the school newspaper covering arts and culture on campus.

I knew one thing for sure after that. I liked writing.