7 April 1995

by jkatejohnston

Dear Max,

Nobody likes my diary. They don’t like my pimples, farts, boogers or Albino Snatch. But surely all these things will be appreciated by people of real taste.[1]

It’s a little disheartening.  Most people don’t read, and most of the people who do read have ideas about what books should be like that will make them hate me. This narrows my potential audience down to about five or six people. Poor Princess!

I have to admit, I find my diary pretty shocking when I hear myself reading it aloud. I feel so thoughtful and serious when I write about things like Albino Snatch. But then on paper—goodness gracious![2]

 

 

 

 


[1] I must have turned my diary in for the writing class at Mills. What was I thinking?

 

[2] This entry reminds me of one time when I was in college and I was at home writing something. My mom read it over my shoulder and laughed. “How can you be so serious when you’re writing that?” I told Max about it and he said, “Well writing is serious business.” It’s also—and I don’t think for a minute that he’d argue with this—frivolous business. Hurrah!

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