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Mary Berelson
a book bubble about
Bicentennial Summer
Literature & Fiction
Author Insight
The Journal I Never Meant to Keep
As a kid, I was forever trying to “capture” life—scribbling in diaries, starting journals I never quite finished, storing memories in half-used notebooks. I think many of us do this: we want to hold onto the moments that shape us, but life moves faster than our pens. Mary’s idea of a Journal of Life grew out of that impulse. It’s not something she writes—it’s something that writes itself. She doesn’t get to curate only the shiny parts; the complicated, uncomfortable truths get logged right alongside the triumphs and adventures. That’s the paradox of memory: it’s both a gift and a record we didn’t necessarily ask to keep. In this excerpt, Mary realizes she’s making a new entry without even trying. A dusty highway, her dad humming beside her, the sun setting in gold—it’s an ordinary moment that becomes extraordinary simply because she’s paying attention. That’s what this story is about at its heart: noticing. Growing up. Realizing that the beautiful and the painful together make us who we are. And understanding that even the bumps in the road—literal and emotional—become part of the journal we carry forward.
Book Excerpt
Bicentennial Summer
I pulled myself out of my reverie, looking to the left at Dad while he continued driving. He had always wanted to remember everything. Big lessons, little adventures. At some point, that had rubbed off on me, and I’d started to keep track of my own ex-tra-or-din-ary experiences, like breaking my arm on a botched rope-swing jump or emceeing the third-grade talent show. But for every real journal entry, there were a dozen half-filled notebooks gathering dust on my “cemetery shelf.” I always meant to document my experiences by hand, but I didn’t always have the time.
Eventually, I invented My Journal of Life. It wasn’t a physical book, just a mental log where I’d store vivid snapshots of my life. In my mind, it was perfect—beautiful entries, intricate illustrations, even flawless penmanship. My Journal of Life let me pause and savor the moment without the pressure of pen and paper. But here’s the thing about My Journal of Life: I didn’t get to pick what was included. The good, the bad, and the ugly all went in. Like the day Mom folded that twenty-dollar bill into my hand, her voice trembling as she whispered, “Just in case.” Or the time I caught Dad ogling Jenny at the TripTik counter, that one crooked tooth denting his bottom lip. My Journal of Life was messy, chaotic, and sometimes painful. But it was mine.
Blue Pierre hit a bump in the road, jolting me back to the present. Dad was humming and smiling, totally in his element. I glanced out the window, the sun painting the horizon gold, and realized I was making a new journal entry right then and there. I wondered what I’d add to My Journal of Life before the trip was over.
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