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This is ridiculous really. I don't know who I think is going read this, but I feel encouraged when an audience is listening.

Mom always says I have a flare for the dramatics. It's usually derogatory, but in my infinite wisdom I have turned it in to a motto for life. You have to admit—if you were real you'd want me to talk to you directly. I would hate to exclude, so rather than risk hurting feelings real or imaginary, I will include you in my narrative. Mom also says I over-analyze things, but I don't think so at all and since you are my imaginary audience I have decided that you absolutely agree with me.

My grandpa gave me this journal and told me to start it today. Why, I don't know. Old people always have their reasons. He made the leather cover with my initials in the corner—in case you can't see it for yourself. He's from the country, or used to be before he moved to be closer to us, so homemade gifts are his specialty. I can't tell you how many tables and chests and shelves with pegs to hang keys on we've collected over the years. I suppose being from the country or the city for that matter would give your life color—you know that thing they always use in literature classes to analyze novels. (It's the point at which the author gets slammed. You raise your hand to say that you rather like the New England setting of The Cider House Rules only to be bull-dozed by the question of "Yes, but does it have color?" There's no true answer to that question, which I rather like, but which those teachers stubbornly refuse to acknowledge.) All I know is, I would rather be any place in any one of those novels than here in mindless suburbia, growing up then growing old inobscurity.

Mom says I take life too seriously. She says I'm only twelve years old and that I shouldn't worry about such matters. I say I've already had twelve years to warm up and I am ready to go. Pa always understood me. He didn't tell me what to do or remind me of how young I am.

All he said was, "Blythe, I want you to have this to write your life down in."

That's it; that's all he said before he began to whistle some old twangy hymn. For a man who could talk the bark off a tree, this was an abruptly short conversation, and perfectly suited for me.

So left with no guidance, here goes . . .