For my ninth birthday, I was given a green leather-bound diary with a lock and key. I treasured it and wrote in it secretly every day. Here’s what I wrote daily during the months my mother was pregnant:
I hope Mommy has a baby boy.
Yup, that was it… repeated day after day. Yet I felt I was confiding to the diary my deepest hopes and wishes.
As a young adult, when I started to think of myself as a writer, I resumed diary writing. But now it was called a journal, not a diary, and I wrote in spiral notebooks. I’d expanded my syntax and sentiments a good bit by then. [Read more...]