While growing up I, like many other young girls, kept a diary. In elementary school they were small, with little locks and keys (which never seemed to work right and certainly weren't hardy enough to keep out snooping brothers). Of course, there was no real reason to keep out snooping brothers—I wasn’t writing deep, dark thoughts as a 9 year old. As a teenager I deposited my inner self on run-of-the-mill spiral notebooks. There seemed to be so much to say--it felt good to dump the thoughts and feelings (mostly feelings) out of my adolescent head and onto paper. The problem was, I would occasionally pull out an old diary to re-read, and when I did-- oh what embarrassment awaited me! What ridiculous stuff was written on those pages! How stupid those words sounded! How dramatic I was! How could I be such a weirdo? You’d better stop writing, I’d tell myself--you’re making a fool of yourself. (This was a strange reaction to have considering the fact that due to good hiding procedures, I was the only one at this point reading the things!) So I was making a fool of myself in front of whom? That's right, myself-- so why should I have cared? Oh, it’s rough to be 16 years old….
So what was the problem, you ask? Oh, I don't know--I think I just didn't like my writing "voice" for some reason. (I repeat, Oh, it’s rough to be 16 years old….) But that was then. I’m now an adult (have been for decades, actually) and ready to try writing again. There’s a good chance the embarrassment reaction will be repeated if I ever look back on what’s been written here, but oh well, big deal. The fantastic part about sharing personal humiliation is that there’s a good chance someone out there in this big, wide world has had the same experience and will graciously commiserate with me! (Any kindred spirits out there?)
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