Saturday, November 14, 2009

My Composition Books

When I was in fifth grade my Oma gave me a diary. It was my first. Green and blue with little fishermen all over it. She told me it was a safe place to write all of my thoughts and feelings. I took her advice for a long, long time about writing what was going on in my head. I have stacks of old composition books, journals, diaries that I kept off and on until about four years ago. I'm less likely to scrawl my emotions into journals now than I am to incorporate them into stories and scripts. Or even just talk them out with my husband, friends and therapists.

But as I'm working on these two teen outlines, I'm trying to get back into the head of that angst ridden teenager from long ago. It's been a while since I've flipped through the pages. But I'm finding them horribly depressing. I mostly wrote about the sad times growing up ... feeling ugly, unloved, losing friends or relatives, the day River Phoenix died, being so in love with countless boys that would never love me back. So as much as I really want to read through them, I had to close the pages and put them back in my trunk. Maybe another day. Because today, I'm enjoying my age and my wisdom. I'm enjoying my place in the world with my friends and family. I'm happy.

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