Hey bookish babes,

At fifteen, I wrote an entire novel at my family's dining room table, Microsoft Word open, TV playing in the background.

Now, in my thirties, I can barely write for thirty minutes without reaching for my phone.

What happened?

A weird amount of my personality can be traced back to a school fundraiser where students were recruited to hawk magazine subscriptions in exchange for trivial tat that was barely a step above arcade prize winnings. 

I suppose the bookworm bit me before then, but it was certainly an inflection point.