I started writing regularly upon receipt of a journal for my thirteenth birthday. The cloth covering the book was adorned with pale pink and maroon flowers against a beige background with black vertical stripes. The pages had wide-ruled lines, a generous margin, and a soft feel against my fingertips.

It became my first “serious” diary.

Every night before I went to bed, I opened this cloth-covered book underneath the lamp with the dusty paper shade. Using a mechanical pencil (5mm HB lead), I wrote the date in the upper right hand corner of the page. In the upper left corner of the page I opened with “Dear Diary”. (Followed by a comma, not a period. And not a colon either, as I would readily hug my journal.)

For nearly every single day for next five to six years, I wrote an entry in my journal. The cloth-covered journal was the first volume; afterwards, I used spiral-bound, college-ruled notebooks (more lines means more text).

I stopped maintaining a journal during my first year of college. By then, the journal was the 25th or 26th volume in the series.

My college roommate (hi Maria!) and I discussed the termination of my journalling.

“College is busy,” I remarked. (I probably said something else, though the sentiment matters more here than the actual words used.) “There are so many things to do: There’s all the studying, and there’s all the time I spend in band (hi Justin!), and there’s stuff I want to do with friends, plus I want to spend time with the guy I’m dating… and I’d rather do all of that than write, you know what I mean?”

I was ambivalent, to be sure. Maintaining a journal helped me to think about the events of the day, reflect on ideas, and ruminate on problems. It was part of my bedtime ritual, something I would do to exorcize the stress of my day before going to sleep. Furthermore, I had been doing this for six years! This commitment to myself had produced a sizable collection of stories.

However, the exercise was starting to become just that: exercise. I no longer looked forward to writing in the journal. Instead of invigorating me, instead of bringing satisfaction and joy, writing in the journal seemed more of a chore, an obligation.

So I stopped.

Though I didn’t actually stop writing. The internet and e-mail were becoming popular. Here was a medium that cultivated my interests in the written word—and I type much faster than I write. And how I love(d) letters; I had spent the past six years writing letters to myself and now, I could dash off letters with ease. Letters were just long enough to require some sustained attention, but short enough that they did not require a huge investment in time. And anything can go in letters: Lists of facts; directions; greetings; and, of course, stories.

I have always enjoyed the narrative. The story is a powerful means of communicating ideas and information. It is compelling, thoughtful, and persuasive. Furthermore, sharing stories from my observations of the world around us and within me helped me to think about the events of the day, reflect on ideas, and ruminate on problems.

So I wrote a lot of letters. And many recipients told me they liked them. “You’re a really good writer!”

That’s as far as I got in typing this entry—this entry that was meant to end my blogging—today while waiting for patients in clinic. (None of them attended their appointments. This vexes me.) My intention was to elaborate upon the cycle of writing in specific contexts, getting tired of it, and then writing in another context. And how the same motif runs through it all: thinking about events of the day, reflecting on ideas, and ruminating on problems. And, of course, the power of the story.

Do not misunderstand: My love affair with writing continues. I enjoy the craft immensely. (Dare I call it a craft? Am I qualified to be a “writer”?)

One can write without blogging. I sense that blogging may be transforming itself into a chore and really, no one likes to do chores.

Joshua invited me to join him to attend the Hello Health clinic opening this evening. (Hi Joshua!) In addition to speaking about the current goings-on in his life, he encouraged me to keep writing. (He also introduced me to some people and used superlatives to describe my stuff here. It was embarrassing. Just to be clear.)

Indeed, I have found great satisfaction in writing here (see the triumvirate above). I’ve also met some interesting people that I would have not otherwise ever met (hi Jesse, Branille, Graham, Joshua, Justin, Bardiac, Brock, Amanda, Yasmine, Molly, Terry, Philip, Michael…!). Then there are all the people I would like to meet that I would not have otherwise ever heard of were it not for the blog (hi Rowan, Dr. Charles, Kevin, Andrea, Yaser, amongst others…!). And then there are all the people who knew me and now follow my blog, which is flattering in its own way (hi Maria, Matt, Kyl, Justin, Lynn, and other lurkers who have yet to identify yourselves…).

And then there’s the minor detail that I met The Beau through the blog. And that’s a story of epic proportions. People use terms like “amazing”, “unbelievable”, and “incredible” and phrases like “that’s like a movie”, “that’s better than a movie”, and “that is like the most romantic thing ever” upon hearing that tale. I kid you not.

My writing frequency has fallen off, I know. And I rather pride myself on keeping my commitments. I’m neither committing to writing nor committing to not writing. (And no, things don’t have to be that rigid, but you know what I mean.)

I don’t know what I’m going to do. The consequences are all intangible if I keep writing or if I stop. I continue to mull. Or stall, really.

And, by the way, I’m still gawking at New York. It takes a lot of time to gawk. This place is unbelievable.

(Yes, comments for this post are off. If you want to say something to me, e-mail me.)