I’ve been doing some major cleaning out this past week: getting rid of clothes, throwing away old junk, and sorting through boxes of past projects, drawings, and papers. I really don’t mind this process because, one, I simplify my life, and two, I take a pleasurable trip down memory lane. My favorite part of this journey is reading through my old diaries. As a born writer, I’ve been keeping some kind of journal since I was six years old. I thought it might be fun to give you a glimpse at how my writing began.
April 28, 1994: I git a swai sat. I plab on taa swai sat to ba. Wr go win to mic a kaag.
For those of you who aren’t fluent in kindergarten, here is the translation my mom so wisely wrote in the margins: I got a swing set. I played on the swing set today. We’re going to make a cake.
December 2, 1994: I have the cikins poxs. It is not fun. I am ichee.
Fortunately I improved on the spelling as the years went on. Here are two of my favorite entries from when I was ten years old:
July 11, 1998: Today Shannon and I played superheroes. I was Awesome Anna and she was Saving Shannon. We both wore leotards, knee socks, and blanket capes. I wore scrunchies on my knees and Shannon wore white shoes.
July 20, 1998: I went on a ride on the boat. It was so fun! We went around the lake and then we came back. When everybody got off the boat, too many people were on the dock and it broke! The grownups still had their clothes on! Fortunately I had on my bathing suit.
And of course I have to include a couple entries from my junior high years:
March 7, 2000: Last time I wrote in this journal, I might’ve not worn a bra. Now I do and I’m pretty used to it.
November 5, 2000: Just now Shannon and I were talking about inflatable stuff. Shannon said there could be inflatable toilets. I thought it was funny, but when I’m 23 and reading this I’ll probably think it’s inappropriate.
Despite the fact that I am now the indicated year, I’m glad to say I can still laugh at inflatable toilets. And I must confess that Shannon and my dress-up days are not necessarily a thing of the past. I suppose 23 isn’t quite as mature an age as I once thought. And that makes me happy.