Nine months, two weeks, and six days after I first set myself to the task, it’s finally time for me to ‘fess up and come clean.
My name is Rachel, and I’m no better at faithfully keeping a diary now than I was at age fourteen. And I was terrible at it then.
Three days. That’s how long I managed to keep at it before I fizzled out. Three stinkin’ days.
On the plus side, I’m almost positive that the stuff I did get down on paper over those three days was brilliant. I can say this with a fair amount of swagger because none of you will ever be able to confirm or deny my assertion. (That’s the lovely thing about secret diaries.)
Of course, I’m only almost positive. I can’t be 100% certain, since I haven’t cracked the book open since March.
But maybe — just maybe — in a decade or so (or whenever I next feel inspired to chronicle my life in a candid and utterly unguarded way without a single dear reader to fuss over) I’ll pick it up again, review my pitiful little handful of entries, and let you know whether they were worth writing or not.