Like a word search puzzle, I scramble to find words to write. The page remains blank. Looking for inspiration in everyday life has not been easy. I’ve stood beneath trees, sat near grass, purposely pursed conversations that might be put to paper – still nothing. Is being at a loss for words symbolic for being lost?

It's funny how sometimes events in your life take you along familiar roads, over and over again. I was thinking about that last week, when I found myself walking across a beautiful college campus, on the way to giving a reading from an essay of mine which appears in this wonderful book. It was a proud moment for me, and I was nervous and excited all at the same time.

I think I jinxed things royally last week when I wrote about L.'s diary writing. Although I did know it wouldn't last forever, I was hoping he'd found at last a pressure-free way to practice writing, under circumstances he controlled, and at times he--and he alone--picked. We've been struggling for years to help L. break through the barriers he sets up (and faces) about writing.

L. is all over these books lately. He asked for books one and two for Christmas and I gladly obliged. He rarely expresses any interest in books that are "fiction" and not detailed guides to his latest obsession (in this case aviation). But I had noticed in the weeks leading up to the holiday break that almost all the kids in his class were buying the books at the Scholastic book fair and toting around copies of them, laughing at the jokes, and swapping "how far have you read?" challenges. When L.