When I was twelve, I wrote a story about a girl whose little sister was dying. The girl, the narrator, was unnamed. The sister was called Lily, a name I chose because I had seen lilies at a recent funeral. I remember a single sentence: "We stood sentinel around Lily's bed." My teacher thought it was a true story, which embarrasses me now.

I'm nineteen, now. I no longer write stories about tragedies I cannot understand. In fact, I don't write stories at all.

I don't have a creative bone in my body, to quote myself, some months ago. Except creativity is not a bone. It's a muscle. And you don't truly realise how true that is until you lose it, and something as simple as coming up with a metaphor or a rhyme is foreign to you. Even this journal entry has been tough to write, and it doesn't flow as I would like; it feels awkward, stilted.

When I was twelve, I had three little sisters. A few days ago, sibling number six was born.

My father knocked on the window of my bedroom at 4 o' clock in the morning so I could unlock the door and let him in. My first sleepy question was, "Boy or girl?"

"A girl," he answered. "Lily."