Diary · of · an · Aspiring · Writer

JUNE 9, 1850

Today -- June 9, 1850 -- is my fifteenth birthday. I have mixed feelings over the matter, for the age of fifteen is the turning point for a girl. Today I am supposed to give up childhood pleasures and cast a serious eye on my future. What future, I wonder. There are so few people to meet in town, and not much hope for someone such as myself. If I must be married and a simple housewife, here in O'Hara, I shall go mad! I do not want to think about that now. It simply depresses me.

Mama helped me pin my hair up today, for this is the more accepted style for the young woman I am supposed to be. I loath it! The pins are making my head ache already, and it is not yet noon! I was also given a new dress, as part of my birthday gift. The hemline falls modestly to my ankles. One has to walk slower with the additional length. I cannot say that I like that.

My uncle sent me a novel, which arrived in the post last week from Boston. It is called Jane Eyre. It is about a governness and her master, and a romance that crops up between them. Mama frowned a bit when she saw it, but I reminded her that if I was a young woman now, I should be able to read such things. Mama did not appreciate my smart tongue, but Papa allowed that I was to keep the book, and that his brother would not send me anything scandelous.

I have to tend to some chores now. The weather is terribly gloomy and damp out today. Oh, will the sun ever come out?

M.C.

APRIL 23, 1850

Hello. I am Meg Clayton. I was born in Boston in 1835, but when I was almost fourteen, my family traveled across the country along the Oregon Trail. We settled in a small berg named O'Hara in Oregon Country, and right now we live in a three room cabin on acres of farmland.

I have two sisters and three brothers. I am the second oldest, and eldest daughter. Papa used to be a banker, but now he farms. Mama, of course, cares for the lot of us.

I love to write and read books, although books are hard to come by out here. I have kept a journal since I was twelve years old, and someday I fancy the idea of writing books. I would like very much to do something with my life beyond marrying and raising my own family, but I do not expect to have such an opportunity with society being the way it is.

Therefore, my journal is where I pour out my thoughts and feelings, however scandalous they may be in the eyes of others. You have been warned, dear reader.