I signed up for Digital Writing Month with the knowledge that I was unlikely to reach the 50,000 word goal. I am notoriously one of those well-intentioned folks who begin projects only to abandon them part way through or who have grand visions which never become more than an eye-twinkle. In my more romantic moments I have imagined that I would one day write a book–not an academic work, but something of fiction. Or, as most books tend to be, something narcissistic and autobiographical (because what, of everything in the world, can I possibly know better than myself?). One day, I think I will write the story of my grandfather, whom I love more than anything. One day, I will compose enough poetry to fill Hell. One day, I will catalogue all the lingering glances and palpable discomfort which arise when people notice the surface of my skin is broken by countless scars.