I have been a writer my entire life. I can remember yearning as a preschooler, for the ability to put meaningful combinations of letters down on a page. Once I learned how to write my own name, I vandalized anything that could reasonably withstand the pressure of a pen or pencil. This custom of mine caused me some amount of scorn and ridicule, mostly from my mother. Yet, I persisted in doing it long after I had acquired a larger written vocabulary. My beloved kindergarten teacher Mrs. Leonetti taught our class how to write I LOVE YOU, so that we could make cards for or departing student teacher. I wrote I Love You on everything. It never occurred to my mother to try and help me learn more words. I languished in a frustrated world until my first grade teacher Mrs. Dickerson tried with all her might to crush my eager little spirit with her rigid methods (when I read To Kill a Mockingbird I pictured Scout's narrow minded teacher as Mrs. Dickerson). Still, I persevered and despite my mother's naive indifference to my education; I became a writer.
I have boxes and boxes of journals, going back to the sixth grade. I was told that diaries were kept secret, because they contained the deepest, darkest, most shameful thoughts that a girl could commit to paper. This custom left me wanting. Of course, I did NOT want my mother and sister reading my journals, so I dreamed of a future audience who would appreciate my youthful genius retroactively.
Skip ahead to the birth of my daughter and I became rejuvenated as a diarist. We purchased iWeb and paid for a .mac account so that I could post the baby's progress for far away family. My family blog consisted mostly of cute daily happenings ( and still does). My Grandma loves to receive updates and although her praise is sweet, she is easily confused by anything dark or philosophical. I get comments like, "That was very interesting." Then she calls my Aunt to find out what is wrong with me. I needed a more sophisticated audience. Cue the Heathen Family Revival.
16 hours ago
