Because my bedside table is overflowing, I decided to go through my full notebooks and then get rid of them (which is code for putting them in the crawlspace, because I find it impossible to part with notebooks).

Here’s what I discovered while flipping through the pages: my notebooks are crazy. There are grocery lists and PAC meeting notes, drafts of letters and story ideas, to-do lists, revision notes, prices for internet connections, bubble maps of title possibilities, strange doodles, words I can’t decipher, and something that reads “Three friends — The Furies — gay boyfriend.”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? What if it was going to be something brilliant, and now it will be nothing because I failed to communicate to myself in complete sentences?

Also, there are pages and pages in these notebooks that I have no memory of writing. I don’t remember coming up with the ideas, or starting the stories, or ever being interested in the topics.

I’m pretty sure an alien secretly lives in my brain.