Ana muses about the idea of keeping a diary.
During one pre-teen summer, schmancy, floral cloth-covered diaries with "locks" and teeny tiny keys didn't appeal to me. Diaries were for recording successes, and I wasn't the kind of girl who knew the cute boys in school were standing in line to pair up with me.
The how-do-I WIP of my life needed bigger pages, room to cross out mis-written lines. I needed spiral notebooks, narrow lined and narrow margined, so I could get words on a page.
I wrote about serious things. Like where I would live when I grew up, and what I would do. How I would immediately say the right things in casual conversations. How I would be skinny and pretty, know how to make up my eyes to look like deep pools of mystery. How I would be in charge of my life. Be certain about everything.
I ripped out page after page. By the end of that summer, all I had were the yellow cover, hard back, and the wire spiral. School started, and I was tossed back into the pool of social awkwardness without a plan.