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Who Will You Inspire?
I walked past my local indie bookseller the other day and noticed that there was a new collection of writing by one of my favorite authors. I was walking my dogs so I couldn’t go in, but I thanked the author in my head and made a mental note to come back.
I thank Anne Frank every time I see a photo of her staring out at me from a book jacket because she’s had a huge impact on my life.
Like every kid I know, I was assigned The Diary of a Young Girl in fifth or sixth grade. I became obsessed with Anne and the attic. I borrowed every book from the library about the Holocaust. I think my mom and my teacher were a little worried about my fascination with everything that affected Anne and her family. The invasion of the Netherlands, the crimes against Jewish people, the concentration camps. In sixth grade, I knew more about Auschwitz than my teacher. (I also knew a tremendous amount about the Titanic, but that’s for another post.)
Looking back, it’s clear I loved Anne Frank because I identified with her.
She wrote about her life in a journal, like I did. She felt misunderstood and scapegoated, like I did. I think deep down, I wanted my writing to matter, to have an impact, to be honest and true like hers.
As I got older, my talent for writing seemed like a nice-to-have. In college, I could draft a five-page…
