Over the shoulder it goes.
Dot writes on a raft with shark fins circling. She writes in the dentist's chair, in a bathtub full of bubbles, in the front car of a rollercoaster on the way down. And when somebody hands her a frilly diary with a heart-shaped padlock, it goes over her shoulder without a second look.
You've met that diary. Somebody gave you one when you were eleven, or you bought the nice version at fifty. Page one was full. Page two started with Dear Diary. By page nine you'd run out of things that felt worth reporting, it went in a drawer, and you decided you weren't a journal person.

