I remember my very first diary—small enough to tuck into a big pocket and bound together with flowered cardboard and a locking latch. The key was teeny weeny and made from bendable metal. I didn’t care—I proudly strung it on a chain and hung it around my neck like a trophy.
I adored my diary. I strutted around the elementary playground relishing my deep dark secrets which were safely locked away from everyone’s snooping eyes.
I had three sisters. You can guess how long my secrets went unrevealed. And did you know you can pull the latch of those cheapie diaries open without a key?
My scribbled proclamations of love were broadcast all over the neighborhood with accompanying giggles, rude comments, and wise cracks.
I was not a happy camper.
Fast forward a few decades: I still keep a diary of sorts, but I never quite trust its privacy. Nowadays, I no longer write deep dark secrets with abandon. Although my sisters live miles away (and I totally trust them now), I hesitate to write my naked truths.
How about you? Has anyone ever snooped into your private words? Do you write your naked truths?