DIARY PAGES: Beverly Cleary

I write from the place where the tantrums start - from that spot where I am awkward and shy and desperate to be listened to, comforted, and given cookies. I write for the me who is sweetly disobedient, hair a frightful mess and shoes muddy, late for supper again. We do not grow up, we grow layers, and we must understand that the incorrigible child we were remains within us (reading a book under the covers with a flashlight). The room doesn't change even though you glue on ridiculous amounts of wallpaper. I write for her. I always write for her.