I used to keep journals, not fanatically, but frequently. As I became happier, or maybe just older, those journals became less essential. My writing fell to fiction. While I lost much of the angst (okay, not all of it, but most) I also lost a bit of the freedom those secret books allowed. I wrote anything, free to be selfish or silly or melodramatic, giddy with love or wine. Now I have this public forum as my journal and the censor is on all the time. I wonder if I shouldn't cut back on this experiment if only to stop encouraging that nag with the big red marker that marches around in my head. She is on duty often enough when I work on my book. The other option would be to be as honest here as I was back then. Who would care? What would I say? Am I even capable of that kind of honesty at this age or have I grown too protective? What a disaster to think that I may have grown more fearful in some ways than I was back then, or at least more jaded, less flexible, less true. Maybe I really have embraced the cranky old lady in me a bit too firmly. I will try and ease my grip.