My mother was older when she had me, and she used to tell me that she was worried that even though she was certain that she had happy memories, she couldn’t remember them. And so when I was a very little boy, she bought me a small blue diary and instructed me to write down my happy memories every day, without fail, and I did. I started in the morning after I woke up until breakfast, and then after breakfast, and then during school at recess, and then after school, and then before dinner, and then after dinner, and then just before I said my prayers and then right before I went to bed. And every time I wrote about my happy memories I always wrote the same happy memory: “writing.”


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