Have you ever wondered when I became a writer? I have. I mean, I think I have always like to write, but what can I actually remember? Doodly Squat.

Well, it turns out that I do not have to wonder anymore.

My father has been cleaning out his closets. I am not sure what I think about this, but he brought over a 3-ring binder of all the correspondence that I have ever sent to him (and that to my grandmother), including copies of my grades, and all the notations he made on the money he spent on me from birth through college, including postage!

Below is a letter I wrote to my grandmother just after I turned six years old.


Dear Isabel, How are you?
I am too shy to kiss the boys.
I am learning how to spell words
by using flash cards.
I have a Donny Osmond lunch box.
I love you. Love Tricia

XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXX


What else did I find interesting in the binder? Remember the photo I found of myself in New York City that upset me since I didn't remember ever being there? Apparently I wrote my father a letter comprised of a very exhaustive description of the trip.

I feel like a voyeur on my own life...