My eight-year-old self is proud of me.

I’m working my way through The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, and this is reading-diet week, where I can’t read stuff to amuse and/or tranquilize myself.  I might go to a movie with someone later this week, but that’s by way of socialization.  I hope.  Because I really don’t get out enough.  Anyway…

This morning my assignment was to think back to my eight-year-old self, what I liked to do, what I thought…and have my eight-year-old self write a letter to my adult self.

To my surprise I found out that my eight-year-old self is proud of me.  She thinks it’s awesome that I’m a writer, she likes my kids’ books, is absolutely relieved that I’m no longer being bullied on a daily basis and is glad that I stuck up for her (she doesn’t think of my adult self as being her, or as being able to stick up for herself).  She’s kind of disappointed that I don’t play with dolls or live on a farm (she thought that not living on a farm would be fun, but she misses running around outside more).  She’s jealous of all the books that I got to read that aren’t even out yet, in her world.  She likes Rachael; she thinks Lee is kind of scary but pretty silly, too, so he might be okay.  She approves of our cat.  She wishes I could send her more allowance money, so she could buy more books…

I think I’m going to be tickled about this all day.  My eight-year-old self is proud of me.