I’ve always been a writer. It took me a long time to find that out, but the signs were always there. I’ve always been an observer. I grew up in a corner of my grandma’s Village Inn, watching people, noticing their strides and their postures and comparing them. For four years, I learned the people of my small, snowy Colorado town. I started noticing regulars, and the whole time I refused to talk to them, but it seemed that I knew so much about them that they could be considered friends. I knew each of them: I used as much psychology as a 7 year old could possibly know and created personalities for every person. I knew their names from when the waiters would greet them, and I heard snippets of conversations- old people had a tendency of saying, “back in my day…” and younger people had a tendency to not listen. I started filling in those blanks. I was no longer wondering what happened back in Martin Smith’s day. He obviously had to walk with this stupid girl who lived two doors down from him. He stopped thinking she was stupid. He fell in love with her. She fell in love with him. I knew everything. I felt powerful; these people’s histories were in my hands, and I could manipulate them any way that I pleased.