Raia Ragnvindr

“What have you been thinking about?” he asks.
          
          I run my hand along the spine of the journal. “Everything, I guess. My life. What’s happening in it.” And Sam, of course.
          
          “Then write it down. Write down what’s happening.”
          
          I look at him. “Mr. Lee, nobody wants to read about my life.”
          
          “Who are you writing for again?” Mr. Lee asks, arching a brow. He has asked me this before. I know the answer he wants to hear. I write for myself. I’m not sure what this really means, though. I can’t help caring about what people think, especially about my writing. “We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?”
          
          

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