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Frank, Anne. 1952. The Diary of A Young Girl.

"You're reading that again?" That's what my mother said as she caught me reading Anne Frank. Like I haven't read anything but this one book in all these years. She's right. I have read Anne Frank's Diary of A Young Girl before. But some things are worth repeating. Diary of A Young Girl is one of them. The first time I read this book, I would have been in high school. Close enough to Anne's age to feel it--the drama of adolescence on top of extreme political and social upheaval. The Diary of A Young Girl captures both. The war. The threat of death. The threat of captivity. The threat of starvation and disease. But it also captures youth. What it means to be young, to be at that ever-awkward stage in life, in development. Always a me-in-the-making, never quite done finding out who you are and what you believe and what you want out of life. Anne could be any girl in any place and time. But because she was born a Jew. Because Hitler came to power. Her life--her perfectly ordinary life--was cut short.

The book begins in June of 1942. The last entry is in August of 1944. In these two years, these two turbulent years, Anne and her family and several other people as well all go into hiding in the Secret Annexe. Mr. and Mrs. Frank. Margot, the older sister. Mr. and Mrs. Van Daan. Their son Peter. And Mr. Dussel. Eight people. Cramped living conditions. This isn't reality tv. This is life and death. Yes, every person gets super-cranky and super-sensitive. But wouldn't you?

The reader gets a glimpse into the lives of real people through the eyes of one very young sometimes-mature, sometimes-immature girl. Anne Frank. Very famous now because of her diary. But just then--at the moment--one very ordinary girl with a natural desire to write a diary. I think most kids (or teens) at one time or another try their hand at keeping journals. Though perhaps now, blogging has replaced all that. Diaries are intimate, personal, private. Each entry is a snapshot into that one day, that one hour, that one moment. When you're young, (and even when you're older and supposedly all grown up) your mood, your outlook changes moment by moment, day by day. Happy one minute, miserable the next. Such is the case with Anne. Personally, I'm surprised that Anne had as many happy moments, contented moments, grateful moment in the Annexe as she did. I think it would only be natural to be unhappy, scared, miserable, depressed. Living in cramped quarters with people you dislike, people you disagree with, not being able to go outside, to go anywhere you want. Not having the freedom to move, to make noise when you want. To always be on alert. To always worry about the threat of discovery, the threat of capture, the threat of bombs blowing you to bits. High stress. Very high stress.

But this isn't just a book about war, about being Jewish, about being a victim. This book is so much more than that. It's a book about growing up. A book about changing from a girl into a young woman with hopes and dreams and fears and desires. It's a book about being that age. That extremely awkward stage of life. My mom thought all people of that age should be shipped off to junior high island until they grew out of it. That moody, I-hate-you, you-don't-understand-me stage. Anne was a work-in-progress. There's no doubt about it. When we first meet her, she's entering that phase of life. She doesn't get along with her mother. At all. She feels completely disconnected from her. Misunderstood. Unloved. Unwanted. Unappreciated. And her relationship with her father is better, but not perfect. Sometimes she feels the disconnect with him too. And her sister. She feels that her parents love her sister more. That her sister gets all the praise, the love, the positive attention. And she feels that she gets attacked, bombarded with negative attention--lectures, lectures, more lectures. Everyone is always out-to-get-her. But though this does seem to be Anne's story, Anne's predicament, by the second half of the book, Anne is growing, changing, maturing. She looks back over past entries and realizes that things are different, things have changed. And she realizes that most of the changes were in her. She is beginning to build, to establish a better relationship with her family. She is beginning to get comfortable in her own skin.

Anne is someone I think we all can relate to in a way. Anne was just a girl. A girl with interests and hobbies. Likes and dislikes. She could be anybody.

The Diary of A Young Girl was originally published in Holland in 1947. It was soon translated into other languages, including English, and printed in the United States. 1952 is the first publication date for the United States. Almost from the very beginning, it was recognized as a good book, a powerful book, a book worthy of time and attention and respect. But it's not without its enemies.

Though I'll never in a million years understand the mindset of those that challenge books, I'll never ever ever understand why Diary of A Young Girl is one of their targets. I just don't understand it. Can't understand it. One challenge brought against the book stated that it was pornographic. How??? Why??? Fortunately, the challenge failed, and the book stayed on the shelves. I suppose pornography is subjective. But a young girl writing about her period is so not pornographic! A young girl writing about her breasts developing? Not pornographic. A young girl writing about her first kiss? Not pornographic. There is no talk, no hint of sex in the book. Though Anne spends the last part of the book making out with Peter, the son of the Van Daans. But it's not pornographic in the slightest. Not unless it's the mention of Anne reading a book where there is mention of a woman selling her body. Or perhaps it is the conversation about the cat's male organs that is so offensive to folks? Whether the cat is a tom cat.

I could go on for hours about all the suffering the war has brought, but then I would only make myself more dejected. There is nothing we can do but wait as calmly as we can till the misery comes to an end. Jews and Christians wait, the whole earth waits, and there are many who wait for death. (64)

I see the eight of us with our "Secret Annexe" as if we were a little piece of blue heaven, surrounded by heavy black rain clouds. The round, clearly defined spot where we stand is still safe, but the clouds gather more closely about us and the circle which separates us from the approaching danger closes more and more tightly. (115)

But seriously, it would seem quite funny ten years after the war if we Jews were to tell how we lived and what we ate and talked about here. Although I tell you [the diary] a lot, still even so, you only know very little of our lives. (192)

And if I haven't any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then I can always write for myself. . . I want to go on living after my death! And therefore I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me. I can shake off everything if I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn. But, and that is the great question, will I ever be able to write anything great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer? I hope so, oh, I hope so very much. (197)

Hey y'all,

I'm looking for someone to help me add another column to this blog on the left hand side (so it will essentially be a three column blog), so that I can switch over some of the links. Also this would allow me to add some discreet ads so that I can continue to send out books to people who win them no matter where they are in the world. Postage to other countries is expensive.

So if one of you could help me out, please email me at the address in the right hand side bar.

Thanks,

Linsey

Here is yet another (for me anyway, y'all haven't seen any of the others) version of my personal statement for my application. I would love it if I could get some feedback on any glaring errors or weirdness you see.

Thanks.

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There used to be a bookstore next to the market my mother would shop at when I was little. It was all narrow aisles and fully-stocked shelves, and always dim and cool no matter the weather outside. If we were well-behaved during our grocery shopping expedition, my mother always promised that my brother and I could each have a book—a promise that led to collections of the Serendipity Books by Stephen Cosgrove, Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys and others.

He signed there once, Stephen Cosgrove; a very sweet man whose book, The Muffin Muncher, I blame for my continuing fascination with dragons and muffins (delicious looking or not). My mother has a picture of my brother and me, proudly standing on either side of Mr. Cosgrove with our tall stack of books nearly obscuring his face. He signed them all, taking the time to talk to us about his Serendipitous world.

Looking back, I realize it wasn’t much of a signing. The store only saw a small trickle of customers during the day, few of whom had rabid Cosgrove fans at home. It was the kind of event I often hear authors online complaining about—not enough advertising or sell-through to justify the time spent—but for my brother and I it was perfection. Here was an author, a star! One who took the time to talk to a little girl and boy like they were the most important readers in the world. To this day the memory of that time with Stephen Cosgrove epitomizes the why: why I read, why I love books, and why I love the people who produce the books I love.

It was from that store’s manager that I got my first job as a part-time bookseller. She taught me the necessity of expediting stock to the floor immediately, store presentation and how to engage the customer with my love of books to up-sell their purchase. From there I transferred to the store I would later help manage. I learned that it was not enough to just supply the books that were in demand, but that a good bookseller also had to anticipate which books would be big thanks to media attention, and those that would only succeed if given enough bookseller support and word of mouth buzz. My manager taught me that the passion that left me dreading the turn of the last page could be channeled to convert others into followers of the authorial cult.

In 2005 I started a blog under the anonymous title Bookseller Chick where I could relate silly customer questions (“I’m looking for a book. It’s blue. Do you have it?”) and new author finds. It was meant to act as amusement for my friends and an out for me—as I could never remember who I told what story to—but nothing more. Then a strange thing happened, others started reading my blog; anywhere from 150 to 250 unique visitors a day that I had never met. I discovered whole communities of readers, writers, librarians and booksellers on the internet hungry to trade information. In my off-time I blogged book recommendations at the request of perfect strangers, tried to decipher why some covers would grab a book browser’s attention while others faded from sight, and walked authors through their interactions with booksellers. I started to study the process that led to the finished title arriving in my store and realized that maybe I could contribute as well.

It is because of my love of books fostered as a child, my bookseller’s passion for spreading the word about new finds, and this wonderful online book community that I’ve had the honor to be part of that I’m applying to the Denver Publishing Institute. I want to take what I’ve learned from working at the end of the book production line and build upon it from the other side of the creation process. Discovering how to best maximize my potential—whether it be in teaching authors how to connect with booksellers and readers, focusing on marketing on and offline or something else entirely—is my goal for the future, one that I believe this Institute will help me achieve.