The Writing on the Wall

My parents recently moved to a new house, and since the move, all the stuff from my old room has been packed in boxes in my room in their new house. My mom has been after me to unpack the boxes and take some of the stuff home with me, but until recently, I didn't have anywhere to put anything, so I just left it in the boxes. But now that I have a new house with plenty of room, last night I decided to start going through the boxes to figure out what I want to take back with me after Thanksgiving.

I packed up lots of books and some favorite pictures and frames, and then I came across a box just marked "closet shelves." And when I opened the box, I found those six journals in the picture up there. I don't really remember being a serious journal keeper, so I expected the pages to be mostly blank. Imagine my surprise when, one by one, I opened each journal to find them all entirely filled with writing. Turns out, I was a bit of a journaler. From sixth grade through the end of my sophomore year in college, my entire life is documented in my own words.

Color me amazed.

I guess it's no accident that I have taken to blogging with such a fierce determination. Because really, I have been doing it in some form, albeit less public, for almost twenty years.

So, of course, I will be taking these six books back with me to New York to keep in my new house. And although I won't display them on my bookshelves like I will my prized book collection, and although I probably won't go back and read them (because honestly, who wants to read words written by their high school selves?), I will know that they are there, existing as a symbol. The writing on the wall if you will. A sign that I am, finally, becoming what I was always meant to be.

A writer.