That reminds me of a funny anecdote. When I turned nine a friend gave me a journal. It was a mature journal that had a cover like a book from a Charles Dickens collector's set. You know pleather bound with gold embossed lettering. All my life I had been telling my parents that one I would write books so when I opened the gift my mom says (kind of sarcastically,) "What a beautiful journal! You can use it to write your book."

Shy young lassie that I was, I was embarassed by such an outburst and tried to deflect any pending questions from my friends by saying, "Yeah, the story of my life." Followed by a nervous laugh.

At the time I think I meant to point out that journals are used to record daily thoughts and musings but from where I stand now, not having written a novel but still secretly wanting to the statement has gained some amount of irony.

This reminds me of another anecdote from my childhood (one of my favorites.) When I was young my parents had two cars, a green volvo 740 (the kind that was boxy but good and was perfectly symmetrical) and a sparkly green, Datsun, mini, stationwagon. Whenever it was time to go somewhere with the fam my brother and I would ask, "Which car are we taking?"

The answer: "The green one."

Ahh...such wit, SUCH wit.

2002-06-03 - 10:07 a.m.

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