(Conversations, Confessions, and Conundrums with Scout) I see words. Kind of like the boy in the movie The Sixth Sense, only he saw dead people. Instead, my gift is this: I see words. In the form of sentences that take on meaning that become stories. My stories. Observations. Of what I do, where I go, what I experience. For inexplicable reasons, they never seem to stop but just keep coming. Ferociously, feverishly, constantly. It is a good thing, right? Or …