I haven’t decided whether I want this to be public yet. Maybe it’s better to keep it private, a modern version of the journals I always tried (and failed) to keep when I was younger. Now that I type faster than I write (isn’t that a sad statement about my generation? We are literally losing the ability to write with pen and paper. I had to write in cursive during the section of the SAT where you promise–because I guess cursive means a REAL promise– that you are the person you claim to be, and I could hardly do it. I haven’t written cursive since it was mandatory during third grade. I remember the Q. It looks like a 2. Sadly, no Q’s to be found in the promise of identity)

I always seem to start these journals (collection of musings? random thoughts? diaries?) at times that either I or society have decided are “transition” points. Like I’m trying to write my own bildungsroman (proud, Ms. K?) at those key moments.  When I started middle school– I think I have 10 whole pages from that year, again on my 13th birthday, 15th birthday, the day I got my license, when I started my senior year of high school. 5 beautiful journals started and left empty.

And now, here I go again. Another try. This time it’s off to college. Leaving my old life behind and starting anew.  I just have to survive the journey there first.

Me. My 54 year old mother. My beat up forest green Suburu station wagon. 3,329 miles between our little slice of California suburbia and rural Maine.  Ready, set, go.


…And so it starts

…And what is there to say. I guess I start with introductions. I’m Charlie– well Charlotte– but only my father calls me that, and he’s not around much. 

Charlotte never suited me as a child. I was too much of a tomboy, playing with the neighborhood boys with dirt under my finger nails, refusing to wear dresses or have my hair brushed.  I used to carry snails into the house, name them and leave them in a ceramic bowl.  Harry. Mike. Jenine. I didn’t cover them up with plastic wrap because I wanted them to get plenty of fresh air. No dead snails on my watch. It drove my mom crazy, finding snails crawling up the bathroom wall while she was showering. Then I was Charlotte.