Or, A hundred thousand welcomes!
When I was 9 years old I started keeping a diary. It was nice and red and probably gingham or something. And the 9-year-old me felt that I was writing to someone other than myself so I began my entries "Dear Zane." Who Zane is or was I have no idea. If I were being perfectly honest, I would admit I believed I would one day be a famous writer and someone would want to read my diaries after I was dead. Like Lucy Maud Montgomery or Laura Ingalls Wilder. Shoot. I'll need three names.
Anyway, my first entry was on Christmas Day (it must have been a present) and I have sporadically written down my thoughts ever since, filling little pink diaries with kittens on them, a sun and moon themed journal, a monet blank book, etc. My current tome is a hot red, beaded number. The situation is not so great, though, as I have nearly as many blank ones sitting on the shelf staring at me as those I have filled with messy handwriting, lists and the occassional dried flower.
But here I am anyway!
When I was 9 years old I started keeping a diary. It was nice and red and probably gingham or something. And the 9-year-old me felt that I was writing to someone other than myself so I began my entries "Dear Zane." Who Zane is or was I have no idea. If I were being perfectly honest, I would admit I believed I would one day be a famous writer and someone would want to read my diaries after I was dead. Like Lucy Maud Montgomery or Laura Ingalls Wilder. Shoot. I'll need three names.
Anyway, my first entry was on Christmas Day (it must have been a present) and I have sporadically written down my thoughts ever since, filling little pink diaries with kittens on them, a sun and moon themed journal, a monet blank book, etc. My current tome is a hot red, beaded number. The situation is not so great, though, as I have nearly as many blank ones sitting on the shelf staring at me as those I have filled with messy handwriting, lists and the occassional dried flower.
But here I am anyway!
