I still have that little Yashica book, and all the subsequent diaries - real, bona fide diaries - in which I wrote every single night from that first night in '71 until around 1982, when I got my own apartment, supported myself with two jobs and suddenly found myself with less time to sit and write down my thoughts and the events of the day. Or was it maybe all the distractions of young adult life and escaping the projects and living in a great neighborhood in Manhattan? On the other hand, even in the aftermath of my father's sudden death in 1974, I didn't leave one page blank in any of my diaries -- that didn't happen until I was 22 and my life veered off into the "real world." I also remember how, sometime after my father died, I really was tempted to burn the journals of my younger self because I thought I sounded like such an idiot. I didn't cut myself any slack for being the very innocent 12-to-15-year-old that I was. I think I must have hated that clueless child because she was protected from knowing tragedy firsthand. It was supposed to happen to other people.I am so glad I didn't give in to the temptation to destroy those diaries. It's not just the personal history, it's also about a place and a time that's gone forever, and without documenting it, a lot of it would have been lost to me. They say one photo is worth a thousand words, but I don't recall any photographers showing up to document Devon retrieving his dime bag from my windowsill. Time alters memory and memory fades, but the written word is forever. Even in the Sisterhood's diary, I'll often try to mention things that are current but outside our inner lives, just to give it a context in time and place. I feel so very privileged to be part of the Sisterhood project and it's just so exciting and amazing to bear witness as our lives evolve and the three of us braid all the joy, shock, love, recipes, gripes, disappointments, revelations, worry, and anticipation of all things, fantastic and mundane, in our lives.