Ok, here's my confession of a closet writer. I was raised on a college campus ans was alway intrigued by the arrangement of words and their varying meanings. Finally, in high school, I let it all out. During English assignment that required creative thinking/writing, my stories were always anticipated most. I loved writing twisted and emotional and even humorous stories. The emotional ones, unfortunately were based on many true personal experiences.

Soon, many of my classmates would come to me and ask just how I came up with stories like I could, so easily, quick. I'd just smile and cringe within knowing the real reason was that I'd somehow experienced what these interesting characters they loved/hated so much were very close.

I started keeping a diary. Sometimes I would revisit some of the issues in them. The entries were difficult for me to read. They were surreal alomst. Many were like reading what someone else had written about a girl far away somewhere.

I got married. My husband and I were sitting on my bed when he noticed my little red book sticking from benaeth my mattress. He did not respect my privacy and faught very had to get it from me. He would have divorced me for sure had he actually gotten the opportunity to read it (in hindsight, that wouldnt have been a bad thing, LOL)

We were getting ready to leave for a flight out of state the day he attempted to disrespect my wishes to read it. We were running late. I ran back inside of my house pretending to have left something. I went out the back way and set the book on fire. The pages wouldnt burn fast enough.

I had to stomp it out and take it back inside, then run back out to leave. It was years before I'd return back there where my diary was.

My brother told me that my grandmother was curious about some of the chain of events that took place in my life. He said that she opened the book, read and cried for hours and then some. He said that he had to take it from her and plead with her to get some rest and never open it again. I asked him to finish burning it for me. To my knowledge, he did.

Since then, I always felt like I was deprived all of the vital details describing my emotions as I lived the traumatic life. A teacher that had no control over my situation told me to do journal these experiences. She was the head of the fine arts dept on campus.

I cried when I thought about all that my grandmother had to endure as she found the details of what I'd experienced. I know that she must have felt guilty and very sad. I wish that she was here so that I could tell her that I didnt tell her the details because I loved her too much and I knew that she loved me too much and it would have only hurt her, maybe fatally with her diabetic condition.

Since she is no longer living, I would like to finish this life long book because the one that would have suffered will not now.

Wish me luck! I'm writing away on my first novel, finally!

Sugaree