She barely shifted in her chair, each pen stroke centered and focused. Her writing was crisp and clear as I glanced over her shoulder but she never turned from the page. For the first time, her assignment was to write or draw whatever she wanted; a platform of unlimited creativity and self-expression. I watched as she wrote, line after line, the words small so she could fit as much on the paper as possible. After the class had ended and the school day was long since over I asked her if she was done. “Not finished,” she said. I pat her back and nodded because I understood. In fact, in this sense, as a writer myself, I couldn’t identify with her more. She’ll stick with me forever, and I’ll always wonder about the novel she was writing on that paper. As much as I wish I could have read it I kind of like it better that I don’t know what it said. She was an inspiration and an enigma to me. I’m just blessed to have been able to give her the opportunity to unleash the words and phrases she had archived inside her heart. Not one piece of that paper was wasted, she made sure of it.