Day Two

Geez, what’s wrong with me? I’ve been staring at these blank pages for over ten minutes thinking how to put into words what I want to say… and nothing! Absolutely nothing. I guess I’ve got what people in the publishing world call “writer’s block.” Not a very nice feeling, I must say. You know you’ve got so much to tell and write about, but your hand stays frozen like a statue (oops, that’s probably what Ms Williams, my old English teacher at Seaview High, called a mixed metaphor!) and, well, the upshot is that I now know what the tin man in The Wizard of Oz felt like when Dorothy stumbled upon him in Wonderland (or was that Alice, or have I gotten my stories completely mixed up again?). Anyway, not that I need a new heart in my empty chest (or maybe I do, because this one seems awfully heavy and fragile at the moment), only that when it comes to saying what I really want to say my body seems to be full of rust. I need some kind of oil – some kind of emotional lubrication, I guess – to free up all the stickiness in my mouth and hands and mind.

Day One

Dear Diary,

Is that how things start, “Dear Diary”? I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I feel kind of silly, really, Bridget Jones kind of silly if you ask me. Writing was never my kind of thing, especially journals and notebooks and stuff like that. Always felt it was like talking to yourself. In a way, it is, isn’t it? And you know what they say about people who talk to themselves, don’t you? I might be lots of other things, but I don’t think I’m mad. Not yet (ha ha!). Then again, Bridget Jones wasn’t mad was she? And if you think about it, things kind of worked out for her in the end didn’t they? Found her true love, her Prince Charming, and all that. So maybe this diary thing has something in it for me too. No harm in trying. That’s what dad always says, “No harm in trying. You’ve got to be in it to win it.” So here goes…