I've always wanted to keep track of my life in a diary.

And I've acquired a lot of ornate composition books over the years for that purpose. In fact, I received five last Christmas.

But sometimes I feel they are almost too beautiful to write in.

A few months ago, a friend gave me a blank college-ruled notebook for my 18th birthday (along with other gifts, of course). Maybe it was because the notebook's retail value couldn't have been more than 80 cents (so I wouldn't feel too horrible for defacing its insides), or maybe it was because it was one of the coolest gifts I've ever received, but something drew me to it and I couldn't wait to write in it.

I figured the reason a lot of the journals I've tried to keep throughout my life have been failures is I've felt guilty that I was inconsistent for one reason or another.

This was different, though. This notebook was too interesting to use for class, yet it wasn't fancy enough to be intimidating to scribble nonsense in. As far as entry consistency goes, this notebook seemed as if it would be more forgiving.

So I started to write in it. And before I knew it, I found myself cutting and gluing an animated self-portrait of me profiled as a cat. I was manipulating images of food from magazines that originally seemed appropriate and I was making them, well, inappropriate.

I was making lists of my favorite songs and sloppily handwriting manifestos I can't elaborate on in this column. I was being blunt. I was being constructive. And I was being artistic.

Also, I was showing people the contents of this notebook -- something I had never done so unrestrictedly with a journal before.

I soon recognized I wanted everyone to see it. It became evident that some of the animations and smutty manifestos were clearly for the amusement of others. This was all fine with me. It was so fine, in fact, that I essentially looked forward to sharing them all.

I welcomed the fact that I was writing and drawing solely to show other people.

In the notebook's circulation, it has acquired coffee stains, scribbled notes, e-mails, phone numbers and a beautiful self-portrait by a friend composed entirely in crayon. It has also had a lot of verbal comments and started the base for interesting conversations.

All of that has really helped me reflect on how the outwardly life of something that started as a journal can get reactions from people. In showing others what I was writing or drawing or even ranting about for entertainment's sake, I didn't feel like I was exploiting myself by sharing my "diary." If anything, I felt fulfilled. I realized it maybe wasn't even a journal at all. It was probably something else completely.

Recently, I've come to the decision to call the notebook what it really is: a zine in progress.

Zines (pronounced zeens), an abbreviation of fanzines, are cut-and-paste, noncommercial, small-circulation publications featuring original or appropriated text and images.

I'm hoping to attract more people -- teens especially -- who would be interested in helping me develop and distribute it.

I know my distribution process will be a far cry from the early punk-rock scenes from which zines were first introduced.

Regardless, my homage to that era is the dedication of the zine's title, Nasty Nancy, after Nancy Spungen, the late girlfriend of deceased Sex Pistol Sid Vicious.

Of course, distribution is still quite a while in the future.

Until then, I'm still in the developing stage.

* Desiree Pebeahsy attends White Swan High School.