I started keeping a diary when I was about ten as a way to keep myself entertained. If there ever was an award for couples who should not have kids, it would have been my parents. Writing in a diary meant I at least had one sounding board who wouldn’t give me grief. I searched high and low for the perfect notebook to write in and saved all of my babysitting money to finally afford it. I didn’t write anything spectacular in any of my journals so I was surprised when I kept getting phone calls and emails from reporters.
They left vague messages about wanting to know my story better. To get a few more details about my family and friends. I stumbled through saying “No Comment” before turning off my phone and waking my computer. I had vague ideas of what my family could have done. After a few minutes of searching, I found exactly what I was looking for. They took my diary and published it as a book. Published it as a work of fiction and not about their own private lives. They had meant for the book to be released anonymously, but my name must have still been attached somewhere. I wondered how and if the publicity and fame would change my life. Now my secrets were all out in the open and I was technically a published author. Maybe this was my chance to fly.
Standing Room Only 