Belington progressive. [volume] (Belington, W. Va.) 1912-1927, 1922-03-30
PREFACE

Which Explains Things.

Father calls ME Mary. Mother calls
me Marie. Everybody else calls me
Mary Marie. The rest of my name is
Anderson
I'm thirteen years old, and I'm a
is Sarah says I'm that. (Sarah is my
old nurse.) She says she read it once
that the children of unlikes were al
ways croSs-current and contradic-
ton. And my father and mother are
unlikes, and I'm the children. That
is I'm the child. I'm all there is. And
now I'm going to be a bigger cross
current and contradiction than ever,
for I'm going to live half the time with
Mother and the other half with Father.
Mother will go to Boston to live, and
Father will stay here-a divorce, you
know.
Pm terribly excited over it. None of
the other girls have got divorce in
their families, and always did like to
be different Besides, it ought to be
awfully interesting, more so than just
living along, common with your father
and mother in the same house all the
time-especially if it's been anything
like my house with my father and
mother in it!
That's why I've decided to make
book of it-that is, it really will be
book, only l shall have to call it
diary, on account of Father, you know.
Won't it be funny when / don't have to
things of Tot An
i won't, of course, the six months I'm
living with Mother in Boston But,
oh, my THE six months I'm living
here with him-whew! But. then, /
can stand it. I may even like it
some. Anyhow, it'll be different. And
that's something.
Well. about making this into a book.
AS started to say, he wouldn't let
me. / know he wouldn't He says
novels are silly waste of time, If not
absolutely wicked. But, a diary-oh,
he loves diaries. He keeps one him
self, and he told me it would be an ex-
cellent and instructive discipline for
me to do it, too--set down the weather
and what 1 did every day.
The weather and what l did every
day, indeed! Lovely reading that
would make. wouldn't it? Like this:
"The sun shines this morning.
got up, ate my breakfast, Went to
school, came home ate my dinner,
played one hour over to Carrie Hey
woods, practiced on the piano one
hour, studied another hour. Talked
with Mother upstairs in her room about
the sunset and the snow on the trees.
Ate my supper. Was talked to by
Father down in the library about i'm
proving myself and taking care not to
be light-minded and frivolous. (He
meant like Mother, only he didn't say
it right out loud. You don't have to
say some things right out In plain
words, you know.) Then l went to bed"
Just as if was going to write my
novel like that Not much l am. But
/ shall call it a diary. Oh, yes, shall
call it diary-till / take it to be
printed. Then | shall give it it's true
name-a novel. And I'm going to tell
the printer that I've left it to him to
make the spelling right, and put in all
those tiresome little commas and
periods and question marks that every
body seems to make such a fuss about.
If / write the story part, can't be ex-
pected TO be bothered with looking up
how words are spelt, every five min
utes, nor fussing over putting in
whole lot of foolish little dots and
dashes.
AS If anybody who was reading the
story cared for that part! The story's
the thing
/ love stories. I've written lots of
them for the girls, too-litlle short
ones, | mean; not a long one like this
is going to be, of course. And it'll
be so exciting to be living story in
stead of reading it-only when you're
living a story you can't peek over to
the back to see how it's all coming out.
shan't like that part. Still, it may be
all the more exciting, after all, not to
know what's coming.
| like love stories the best Fathers
got-oh, lots of books In the library.
and I've read stacks Of them, even
some of the stupid old histories and