It all began with Anne Frank

Pulled out a dusty 1992 diary bound in red rexin from my father’s old suitcase full of moth eaten, faded delights.

Today, however, I had no time to go through the musty contents of that old suitcase. I had an agenda. I had to think of an appropriate name for my diary, my keeper of secrets. I had to pour out my heart into it every day. Just the way Anne did?

Its 2009, and I am still writing stories in my head. I think it is time.