My sixth grade teacher distributed little manila booklets with fat blue lines .
“These are your private journals, and you can write about anything going on in your life.”
I’d never considered writing before. I could write truth.
I could describe catastrophes, like my Dad’s time in Napa State Hospital, returning months later and trying, but unable to stop drinking. My mom, brother and I glad/not glad to see him, but he brought bingeing boomerangs. He lost another job, lost his car (again) or locked himself up in his bedroom wearing a green jumpsuit, and sang Irish songs along with the record player all Saturday long. Continue reading “writing the truth” »