Dear, dearest diary,
I am sorry I have not written in your lined paper pages for such a long time. I am so sorry to have deserted you for this new-fangled writing instrument called a “blog”. (I know you are raising your papered eyebrows. The word “diary” is so much more flowery and expressive than that harsh syllable “blog”.)
Just wanted to tell you, dear, dear, secret diary that a blog is really something different for me. It’s not a place to tell all. OK, it’s a place to tell some. It has a ready-made audience unlike your secret and hidden pages. I pretend that a blog is column, an essay, something to inspire or entertain. It doesn’t contain all the whining and tears I once poured out in ink, the eternal fretting, “Who am I? What is wrong with me? How to fix this being named Kathy so she can fit into this unfittable world?”
Ahhh, yes, that theme peppered through your pages for way too many years, the endless self-searching, the endless angst. Trying to understand how a life that seemed so good on the exterior actually felt like something-is-missing on the interior.
And then the endless pages of joy and elation, the thrill of being alive, the new experiences, the amazement of life and creativity and delight!