I know that I can write, a couple of my stories are good, my descriptions of the 'Secret Annex' are humorous, there's a lot in my diary that speaks, but whether I have real talent remains to be seen.
Crying can bring relief, as long as you don't cry alone.
I don't think my opinions are stupid but other people do, so it's better to keep them to myself.
I'm sentimental--I know. I'm desperate and silly--I know that too. Oh, help me!
I can't let them see my doubts, or the wounds they've inflicted on me.