A few years ago, the house where I lived when I was a child went up for sale. When I asked the realtor if I could look around, I discovered an unlikely treasure: my diary. Until I entered my old bedroom, I had forgotten all about my special hiding place where, when I was ten years old, I had hidden the diary behind a loose board in the back of my bedroom closet. Memory triggered by place, I stuck my hand behind the board, heedless of my usual fears, such as bugs or mice or something more sinister, and retrieved the leather-bound book. I couldn't believe my luck!

I became that ten-year-old girl again as I revisited the world through her eyes. I was a nerdy little kid, recording my parent's political preferences (Mom-Republican, Dad-Democrat), social commentary on the issues of those turbulent times in the late '60s, and religious meanderings. But most of my musings were typical ten-year-old stuff: playing and occasionally fighting with my friends; family events; and a blossoming interest in boys. My feelings about the opposite sex were mixed: one dreary day in February, I proclaimed that most boys were "rude, feelingless things without any respect." But my disdain did not extend to one boy in particular, who shall remain nameless. His virtues I extolled most passionately: "black hair, darkish skin, glasses that cover the sweetest, gentlest dark eyes ever." My husband tells me I'm a sucker for the brown-eyed look, and evidently that started when I was young.

I also wrote about my plans for the future, which initially included becoming a lawyer and getting a seat in the United States Senate. A few months later I amended that decision, and the wording reflects a certain tentativeness typical of a girl closer to puberty, less certain of what possibilities could be attainable: "Dear Diary, I made the decision not to be a lawyer, I think. Instead I will become a writer. (At least I think so now.)"

So was becoming a writer Plan B? No. When in midlife I fulfilled that ten-year-old girl's dream and began writing professionally, I knew I had come home to myself. Whether wearing my journalist hat or working on a piece of fiction, when I'm writing, I'm happy. So, hey, thanks for visiting my site!