Ghostwriter

When I was in high school I had a teacher that asked us to journal. We turned it in weekly (that's how I remember it) and we could flag it so she'd know it was private and she wouldn't read it. Just make sure that we'd written something. I've never been good at journaling, but I've been a drama factory since I was 2. In MY journal I wrote my feelings in the form of poetry. Very dreamy teenage angst stuff. I debated back and forth on whether I would allow her to read it. I did. She didn't grade us on quality but on whether or not we actually wrote. Little by little she started to write me notes. Comments and eventually critiques. Sometimes I liked her suggestions and changed things, sometimes I'd plead "poetic license" and who can argue with that? Then she asked me if she could send some of them into anthologies and contests, but they were so personal that I asked her to publish them under a pseudonym. I wrote in my journal off and on through the years, but I often felt that I revealed too much and didn't want it read after I died (this is something I thought of because my grandmother wrote everyday and even typed up it's enormous and we love reading it). So my journal has sporadic entries and usually flamboyant doodles on who I was crushing on at the time. Pretty worthless stuff, although I did plan my funeral. Good luck finding all my pallbearers! A few are probably in prison now and I'm not sure that my nephew can play Careless Whisper on the saxophone anymore.
This blogging thing is totally for me. I know (now) people read it and I get comments in various forms on some of my posts. Matthew is very open in his critiques. Lately 'Shemp' took note of my departure into an odd reaction I felt in discovering that my half sister passed years ago. Sometimes I go on tears where I write several times a day and then something will move me to silence for awhile. It's interesting to know that people watch my little drama. Some I have no clue who they are, some are people I know from the worldwideweb, some I have always known. I wonder who knows me best. Is it a childhood friend? A family member? The friend that seems to think my mind is a fascinating place when in reality it is a chamber of regret, hope, sadness, happiness, and A LOT of frustration. Who knows me best here? And why do you come here so often? I am stunned by that. My politics are obnoxious and my rants are often offensive. What brings you back?