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What would make me stop writing?

When I started writing in Dr. Nbook, it took me a really long time to take it to school with me regularly. I was afraid it would get stolen, that people would read it, that they would find out my "deepest, darkest secrets" like what guy I liked at the time (I was terrible at hiding these things back then, and they knew it), et cetera, et cetera.

When I was in ninth grade, Dr. Nbook got stolen twice in one year--by different people. For poor ninth-grade me, this was terrifying. After all, someone else had a hold of my precious words, my deepest thoughts, the things I would pour out only to Dr. Nbook. It contained things I wouldn't dare tell anyone else, and that year, people robbed me of the treasure trove of my words. That year, its contents were revealed to the nonintended, contents that I thought would shatter the world if revealed.

The first time was by a friend who claimed to be curious about what was inside. I actually caught her in the act of reading, too. I didn't ask what she was reading, although there wasn't a very good chance she was reading something I really wanted people to find out back then. She wondered why I carried this notebook around all the time, this notebook with a title and a label. What was so special about it? It looked so ordinary. And why did I write in it instead of paying attention in class (hey, it was better than falling asleep; I did something productive and stayed awake)?

Others, however, hid their motives. This was the case the second time. I can probably guess, though, as the thieves were popular and I wasn't. They took Dr. Nbook when I left to go to the bathroom. Of course, when I got back I had no idea what had happened until I noticed something was missing from my stack of books. I told the teacher, and she made everyone check for Dr. Nbook. Finally, someone else in the class told me where it was hidden. I retrieved Dr. Nbook, and all was well. When that person told me who really stole it, I threatened them--pretty badly too. I don't remember what I said now, but they didn't say anything in response.

Their motive? I have no idea. Perhaps they just wanted to find out what was inside and expose it to the whole school. Perhaps they wanted to see me humiliated in front of everyone. Or perhaps they just wanted to satisfy their own evil scheme. Whatever it was, I can't imagine that it was very complex; to be honest, they weren't that bright.

And whatever their motive, it didn't work. I didn't sink because of them, I swam. I didn't stop writing; if anything, I wrote more. I kept bringing Dr. Nbook to school, even though the danger of it being stolen was still there. This was also the last time it happened, though. Ever. I do believe I rose above them that day.

Now the real question comes. Clearly this didn't stop me from writing. What would have? Would I have stopped writing if the thefts had continued? Would I have given up journaling altogether, or at least left Dr. Nbook at home? Remember, it took me awhile to get used to the idea of bringing Dr. Nbook to school in the first place. Dr. Nbook's violation was dangerous to me. Now I think I would have left Dr. Nbook at home, written on other papers, and glued those papers in Dr. Nbook when I got home. I don't know what I would have done then, though. Thankfully we never got to find out.

What would make me stop writing now? Writing is part of who I am. I breathe words. Words seep out of me like bodily fluids seep out of us. I've been writing seriously since I was eleven--during the years that most drastically mold a person. Somehow I think that only my own death or incapacitation would stop me from writing. Write on.