From the moment I picked up a pencil and declared myself a writer, friends, relatives, acquaintances, and neighbors’ cousins started giving me notebooks as gifts.

I ended up with dozens of notebooks—many with inspirational sayings on the covers that rendered them unusable as far as I was concerned—and they piled up, year after year. Every now and then, I’d pull one out of the mound and try to keep a book of notes for a WIP or a diary. Without fail, the notebook would be abandoned before I filled it—sometimes even with only one page of writing.

This past week, that changed. For the first time in my life, I filled every page in a notebook. That’s right: I finished a notebook!

This accomplishment came about from my new habit to write at least one line of fiction every night. I kept this notebook by my bed and dutifully filled it 83 of the 84 nights since I started it.

In honor of this milestone, here are some out-of-context highlights from the notebook. All are from different WIPs.

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A paper sailed to the floor, followed by another and then another.

I was out of practice commanding trembling fingers, and their mutiny drew the gazes of all customers—except her; she’d been staring at me already.

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Days blended into decades, and time revealed itself for what it was: a constraint.

Gray hair, wrinkles—these were tangible side effects, sure, but did it really matter whether something happened a day ago or 7,000 days ago?

Maybe a lifetime was the only unit of time that mattered at all.

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Alone wasn’t so bad. Alone meant that if he had one cookie, he had one cookie. A friend meant he had half a cookie, and two friends—the horror—meant he had a third of a cookie.

How’s that for fractions, Mrs. Fender Bender?

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The old patterns felt like shoes worn all the way through. Pebbles crept in, and with each step, they dug deeper into the soles of her feet.

She’d discard the shoes altogether, but then the pavement would tear her feet to shreds entirely.

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Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a new notebook to fill.