My grandmother used to journal every single day.  Her entries were often as simple as how many quilt squares she pieced that day and a summary of the weather, but regardless, every evening before bed, she would journal.  I want that.  I want to write my history while I’m living it.  I want to keep a record for William so that if he ever wants to write his history, he can.  But I want to do it anonymously.  Anonymously and privately are two different things.  I have other blogs.  My family, friends and friends of my family and friends visit them.  They know who I am.  They know me well enough that I can’t just write freely there anymore.  Those blogs have lost some of their allure because I am not anonymous.  I want a place to journal my life honestly and openly, the successes and failures, the goals and dreams, the joys and sorrows.  I want to write about my struggles and my strengths, not in privacy, not in seclusion, but not in nakedness either.  Whether it’s a struggle or a strength, I do not want to bare my soul to my circle of acquaintances.  I want them to celebrate my joys with me, but I’m not always as eager to have them share my sorrows.  So here I am.  Where no one knows me.  Yet.