i have kept every word i have ever written, more or less, since i was a child. in folders, notebooks and binders, folded up slips of paper stuck in old diaries. i'm not sure why. the only justification i have is a lecture i attended once given by bell hooks, while i was at stanford, in which she relayed a story of how, in a fit of rage, she burned all her old journals.
then a teenager, i could not imagine such a rage as that and yet could understand the pain she felt at losing them. but i am mature now and finally understand rage, have myself flirted with the idea of simply ridding myself of all these words. there is a fear somewhere in there that losing one is like losing myself, my identity: the quiet, young girl who hardly spoke her mind, but instead wrote it all down waiting for the day ... [view whole blog post ]