It was June 9th, 1962 when I began writing in you, dear diary. I had a new bright yellow Easyrite notebook with all the pages blank. “BITCH BITCH BITCH,” I wrote. I’m sorry to admit that my mother was the object of my fury. Why was I so angry with her? That June day I was furious because my mother had “banned” yet another of my precious books. But “BITCH BITCH BITCH” may be the only really compelling line in the whole diary. I don’t know because the truth is I can only bear to read a little at a time. Dear diary, I confess . . .