Thursday, May 31, 2012


Corrine:  After our earlier argument, Cassidy and I piled our clothes in a line between us, a soft wall that is six inches high and as long as our bodies, which is the same thing as saying as long as our tent, since we are relegated to sharing a tiny pup tent, as usual on these family camping trips – or should I say, these family trauma dramas.
            We used to cling to each other during thunderstorms, when the rain always soaked through the walls of our tent, and the wind threatened to blow us into the lake.  We used to stay up all night by the light of our dim camp-lamp, talking until the lamp’s big battery died.  We used to, we used to, we used to.
            I used to…
            Well, never mind. 
            My nylon sleeping bag crinkles as I adjust to see my journal better.  I remember when I was fifteen, and it came in the mail from my crazy aunt in California, the fucked-up one, or so my equally fucked-up other aunts called Rachel.  I remember I was like, wtf, I mean the blank book was pretty with it’s heavy pages, torn edges, real flowers pressed into the cover.  But I’m not a writer, wasn’t then, anyway.
            Suddenly, the sipper to our tent goes up, and it’s my Uncle Tim, and without thinking, I close my book and start to unzip my sleeping bag.  He’ll say he wants to show me the stars or something.
            “Cassidy, come out!  I have something special to show you,” he says to my sister.
            My sister, not me.
            There was a note that came with the delicate book my aunt sent on my fifteenth birthday.  It said to the journal was a secrets book.  A place to keep my secrets.  At the time, I didn’t have any I dared write down.  But now the book is nearly full, full of secrets, all but the big one, the one I still haven’t written.
            And now Cassidy is going to have secrets of her own.

Thursday, May 10, 2012


Everyone says I ought to write a book.

I am so not into plot -- or is it plotting – shit.  I cannot tell the truth and also make it fit into some four-act structure, or any other mold.

I hate molds.  Makes me think of Jello molds.  Or worse -- just mold, as in moldy -- smelly, old, allergy-causing… all things you wouldn’t want your life story to be.   

I’m not going to promise you a thrilling rollercoaster ride or an inspiring life-changer or an unforgettable story or an indefatiguable hero if you read this book.  As you can see, I’m not even promising to use real words… “indefatiguable”, lol.

But here’s what I will promise.  Every day I will disclose one secret.  I’ll write all about it in this book. 

Secrets!  SECRETS!  I’ll tell you exactly what happened, what I’m thinking, what I felt or am feeling.

One secret.  Every day. 

By the end of this book, you’ll know them all.   If you even care, that is.