Two birthdays ago I received a ballet pink gift bag adorned with images of adorable, wide-eyed owls from an older cousin of mine. Oh, how she knew me. It wasn't until a few hours later when I began to open it alone in my room, and as I pulled out the contents one by one, my subsequent thoughts were: "Too. Cute.", "Ka-ching!", and "Oh, a journal". It was a sweet thought. I liked writing after all, just not so much about myself. I'd sparsely written in a few pages of a diary when I was younger, but there were always so many excuses not to write. Maybe I'd have a boring day or an extended bout of writer's block, but more often than not -- eughh, emotions. . . I just didn't think journaling was for me, and so I let it sit on the shelf, unopened, for two years.
read more...