After years of weekly entries, since I started this blog I have only written in my personal journal once.
I saw "Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl" on somebody's Facebook book favorite list, (I can't find it again- who was that?) and during my allotted two minutes in the grown-ups area at the end of Mia's library time, I saw it and snatched it up. My problem with books: I can't put them down- even when I'm the mom of three kids, apparently. So a few days after starting it, I've finished it (my house paid the price), and I've got a renewed desire to keep my journal.
I wonder if blogging has been detrimental to anyone else's journal-keeping. Who would Anne have been in the world of blogging? This book probably wouldn't exist if she knew she wasn't just writing to her dear patient friend made of paper and binding. (Well, I am in the world of blogging, and so far, I don't regret it. A season for everything, and everyone. I wonder what it is about me that qualified me as a candidate for birth in 1978...)
I really love this book. It seems as if she was destined to write it. Every element of those last years of her life contributing to a drama so perfect, a personality so engaging, uplifting and endearing.
What struck me as odd is that according to her, no one she met in her short life ever saw the side of her that we read. I doubt this book would be such a library staple if people didn't relate to that hidden-hidden person. I think that's just because we all have a hidden, vulnerable second self, too. And something about reading her unbridled thoughts, seeing someone else's vulnerable self, makes that better person in us a little stronger.