May 17—I went to a piano odition then out to lunch then to a supermarket. i was in the Toy area with Shena and a cloun junped out and scared me.
May 15—Today we got out of school 12:00 AM. Lené came to my house today. Hector died. He suffered. We don't know why. I'm getting a new one.
[Hector was a hamster.]
May 11—Today I got in another comercial. I was a background. We made a mound of sand for friendly the wolf to sit on. Shena, Heather, Tom, Edina, Mara, Ryan and I walked in the background while friendly the wolf talked. We went home. I watched video taped movies.
[The campground where we were camping was filming a commercial and we kids hung around and made a general nuisance of ourselves until they told us we could be in the background of the commercial in order to get us to go away. I was thrilled. Friendly the Wolf was a puppet.]
May 23—Heather came over we went to Jan's and Sarah's house and there we rode ponies and rowboats. Jan Struck works for Mom in the French Pantry, Sarah's her dauter.
[The French Pantry was my mom's restaurant.]
[bonus] May 27—Jamie got her period. I'm jealous. Mom says she'll get me some things just incase I do. She might get me a bra soon too!
May 9—We came home. Shena & Mara are spending the night. We got to listen to Beatle music in the car.
[bonus] May 19—I dreamed I went to Paul McCartney's house. The Beatles were there.
May 8—Happy Mother's Day! We swam, sunbathed & played with frogs. I was reading "Will there really be a morning?" I saw the "Billie Jean" video like Mom wanted me to. We came home. We had more Heather presents. Heather went home. Mom, Edina, & I had a talk. We had lobster for dinner. Happy Mother's day. I made mom a card with a picture of the "I [heart] you" sign on it.
(May 7th) I had my 1st period on Friday and Mom made a big deal about it. I can understand why but still I didn't think it was any big thing. I was raving at the time. I was burning mad for many reasons that summed up to—life. I was pounding my fists against my bed until I noticed I looked like a maniac. I didn't know about my period until I sat down on the toilet. We once again went up to the lake. I began a book of short stories—I have finished now, 'Box of Forgotten Hope."
[When I talk about my "town," I'm talking about a game we used to play where we each created a town out of little toys and dolls. Lloyd Hailey and "the tooth brush one" and "Toybox" were stories I wrote.]
I gave Mom a Beatles tape and we listened to it the whole way home—really loud, because Mom’s ears were plugged with a cold. So, I was singing my loudest along with it.
I brought home with me the tape on which I taped the music for my little “I don’t care” song. I was listening to it. It is somewhat better than my old songs on that tape of mine, but…
I remember when my dream was to be a singer. I actually thought I had it in me. Oh God, was I wrong.
I don’t understand my having that dream. And, pieces of it still clutter up in my brain. I still write my little songs, even record them. And, what talent do I have?
People used to tell me I had talent for music. So, I took 6 years of piano lessons, took a tiny course in classical guitar, and thought I had it. I wrote songs—slow ditties where I strummed my guitar and sung my little, un-trained throat out. At best they were the style for the dippiest musicals.
Well, now my style (what style?) is alittle better. I have a beat now. My few songs are less mellow. But, still, I have nothing great. And, I have an awful, untrained voice. I can only strum my guitar and mess up chords. I also use my Yamaha or the organ at the lake—so, I’m cheating.
I’m begining to wonder what my talent is. It is obviously not music—I can’t even dance.
How did I get started on that writing? I made a play for my town called “Marna Terrace” and I could not do it that way because of the special effects needed. So, I decided to write it, and Heather decided to join me and write one of her own. Thus began my huge obsession with writing.
Heck, I’ve got to face it. Nothing I’ve written has been better than “Shows potential”. The books I have scrawled down in my little journal books are all awful. “Lloyd Hailey” has been disregarded. My little toothbrush one won’t win—no way. And I don’t even want to look at “Toybox.”
I wrote a poem for Mom for Mother’s day, as I usually do. It went something something, something… these things make up motherhood… It was really stupid. When she read it outloud, I had to leave the room. Then, she thanked me for it, and said it was good. She said that she wanted me to write it out in caligraphy,