At the start of the week I was all geered up to find my diary. Not the leather backed ones that came later or the lurid, plastic covered one -- with the bad lock and the impossible-to-ever-locate key -- I knew I had a brown WRITER'S JOURNAL.
The others I kept in my room, in a variety of hiding places, but the journal lived in my bag. I travelled to school, and it came with me. Sixteen miles from home to school and back. That was when I wrote. (This was a public service rather than a school bus.) I sat, back pressed against the window, note book on my knees, and wrote.
THIS IS NOT ME, however... the uniform and the hair are right. At this age, I was all about the poetry.
At 12, I was big on the sea and rhyming.
See beyond, and there below,
a stranger where he stands.
A silent figure, poised and still
upon the golden sands.
I know him not, yet understand
the wonder he now knows:
the sunlight on the water.
Silently he turns and goes
LATER, aged about 14
18th Century Lovers Part 2
There he stands the only man I'd marry
turns he -- when he sees me walking by.
How I'd love to show him of my feelings.
Never does he even catch my eye.
I've known this many months that I do love him.
Yet, surly does he seem, when I am near.
Could it be he really doesn't like me?
Often I have shed a lonely tear.
People say he's not the choice to marry:
no titled lord or prince to lighten life.
Merely, there he stands a common soldier.
Never would he want me for his wife.
Knowing this won't ever stop me feeling
that my life is nothing with out him.
Unrequited now, I leave this evening.
Leaving hurts. And going seems a sin.
I sooooooooooo always knew I was destined to write HISTORICAL for Mills and Boon.
What did you want to be when you were 14-years-old?