I was in the middle of a crowd. I went to a corner to look at something. I must have taken too long, I don't know. My friend came to me and said: "Nazy, stop writing! Come and join the others, you can write later." I looked into her beautiful eyes, looking shinier and deeper than usual in that bright April sunshine. I said: "Thanks for coming to get me. I'll come, but I can't stop writing, I'm not done yet." How did she know I was writing in my head?! My friends constantly surprise me with their insight, though not all of it is as pleasant. In the middle of a heated discussion, someone dear to me told me not too long ago: "I can't wait for you to blog about it!" Except this wasn't about a happy story. It was about something very personal and bitterly painful. I looked at my friend that day and said: "I am writing all the time, but not all that I write makes it to my blogs." Such has been my life recently. I have tens of hand-written half-sentences, place holders if you will, of things I need to say, written in meetings, in my car, at the supermarket, and more than once when I woke up in the middle of the night. I am getting ready to write them on my keyboard now. That's where I have been. I am writing.