I began with a diary. Dear Diary. It was black and shiny and had a key that locked. I’ve kept journals, off and on, since then. During my teens and early twenties, I kept dream journals, too. I once lived with a violent, nonverbal man. When I broke up with him, I collected all the dreams I had had of him, since the first day we met, and bound them into a book. The dreams told the whole story. I try to find that unconscious dream part of me when I write, the part that understands symbols and metaphor, the part that remembers everything and seems to know and understand more than I will ever know or understand.