Introduction

My life through writing.

I always liked to write, I must have inherited it from my father who wrote a diary from age twenty till he turned minty years old. It was a family myth that even when he had to run away from the German Gestapo he did not forget his old leather bag with his diaries. He wrote in Hungarian and later, when he and my mother settled down in Jerusalem, in Hebrew.

I started my diary when I was ten and wrote diligently all through my high-school years documenting my teenage ups-and-downs. I continued later through my army service and university years in the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I took my diary with me when I went to study in Pittsburgh, working on my degree in counseling -Ed.

I don’t remember at what point I started to leave my diary behind. Perhaps getting involved in other types of writing mostly newsletters and professional writing diverted me away from the more personal aspects. Maybe being very engrossed in raising a family while holding a full time job as a teacher and school counselor did not leave me  much time. In any case, my diary, by now, a whole pile of numbered notebooks, was left untouched and tucked away.

It was not until we arrived to Maine and purchased our motel four years ago that I felt this tug again. I wanted to write but wasn’t sure what kind of writing and even more complicated in what language. I did try to write in Hebrew and document the motel purchase experience but it was way too early for that. So, instead I joined a creative writing class. Writing in English proved to be an intriguing challenge. Creative writing surprisingly was stimulating and deeply rewarding. Having a supportive group to bring my writings to every week was an added bonus.

I became addicted. Words and phrases filled my head and I spent many hours trying to put them on paper. Maybe at age sixty I can go back to my lost diary and pick up where I left. Like my father writing in a language other than my mother tongue but writing none the less.