In the farthest corner of my house, in a room occasionally used for guests, there is a box that rests on the highest shelf in the closet. In that box, thanks to my mother, is everything I have ever written from the time I could hold a crayon through my senior year in high school. Life is a series of writing prompts, and my earlier efforts, bad poetry, angsty and emotional teenaged words, are all stored beneath that musty cardboard lid. Thanks to technology, I no longer need a cardboard box. Welcome to Pages and Stories, a place I can share my compulsive tendency to record my thoughts with you. I’m so glad you are here.