Do I love writing? I don’t know. It’s what I do every chance I get—before class, after class, during class, when I can’t sleep, when I should sleep but my fingers continue to type, type, type away. But it feels more like a panicked regurgitation than a practiced art form. I read my own work and am always dissatisfied. I worry that I’ve been writing in the same manner for the last five years; I don’t know whether that’s a sign of stagnation or just the cultivation of my “voice.”