So this may not make much sense. When I was younger (before I could write until I was about thirteen or fourteen) I filled seventeen journals with a disjointed mix of things that happened to me and things that I made up. Frankly, nothing has been that fun sense. 
I’ve been doing journals wrong. I had it right the first time. Don’t wallow in things, but instead record the things you don’t want to forget. And always have a good ratio of fiction to non-fiction, around 19/1 in favor of fiction.
Roberta Jean hung up the phone with a feeling of unease. It was the second time her son had called since her collision in the parking lot. If it was the condescending tone in her own son’s voice, or her own insecurity, she didn’t know. But she hated to think of it. “Fine.” She said to herself. In a moment of impulsiveness she threw the cookie she had been nervously nibbling at down on the counter. “I’ll go.”
            But the moment of courage didn’t last long. She was halfway to her room when she stopped. She shouldn’t go alone. Her son would kill her, if nothing else got to her first. So, she called Emma.
            “Mrs. Wilkins, why are you going to Paris?” Emma asked her neighbor, sipping a cup of tea. “I have some old friends there. I’ll pay for everything of course. Thomas will throw a fit if I go alone and I’ve had quite enough of that for now.”

“Well, if you want me to go I will. I’ve never gone to Paris, and I think Paris with you would be wonderful.” Besides, she thought. It’s just the distraction I need. The morning before she had lost her job. Her plan for the day had been to sit in the tub with a roast beef sandwich, and suddenly she had a first class ticket for Paris and an hour to pack.

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