When I was in second grade, my friend gave me a notebook that I started to use as a journal. I thought I was hot stuff, writing about my teachers and classmates and the boys I liked. I wrote in that book nearly every night, and I filled it up pretty fast. When I ran out of pages, my mom presented me with my first ever diary. It had a lock and everything, but being as young and foolish as I was, I took it to school and got it stolen while writing in it on the playground. One of my blockhead male classmates thought it would be hilarious to read it and present it to my crush of the day. Needless to say, I was completely mortified, and I stole my stupid diary back as fast as I could (which is saying a lot because I was a slow runner).
I had to learn the hard way that diaries are no longer sacred. Notebook journals don't belong in the internet age. Nothing is private, and that's the way it's got to stay (assuming I don't want to go undercover or become a hermit). I've got to have Facebook; I've got to check my e-mail; I've got to take pictures of my college friends and show them to my mom to prove I have a life.
But I still want to write, to share my story with the world that's out there waiting for me. What I share may not be particularly interesting or funny nor can I guarantee it will be worth your time to read it.
This I can say though. I'm looking for something, and maybe, just maybe, if I can put my thoughts in order and get them out there, I'll figure out what the hell I'm looking for. It's like Shel Silverstein says in his book... "I'm looking for my missing piece..."
Well, Piece. Here I go. I'm starting tonight. Whenever, I'm feeling lost or lonely or confused or scared or joyous or loved, I will write for you. I'm going to figure out what my story is missing. Whatever you are, whoever you are, I'm looking for you, Piece. Now, all I can do is hope you're looking for me, too.
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