28 July, 1888
Dear Diary,Someone told me that my penmanship was awful, so I'm going to prove them wrong by practicing my writing every single day—except I'm not really sure what girls my age are supposed to write about. (Reading and writing are two skills any girl my age must have, but I've never been one to do so for my own amusement.)
Do I write about my successes? My failures? My friends? What about my hopes, my passions, and my fears? Aren't those all things I'm supposed to talk to other people about (though I do suppose I have no sisters to complain to). I guess I'll just write about everything that happens—both good and bad—until I have penmanship so flawless that one might believe it to come straight from the hand of an artist!
With love, Flora
04 July, 1888
Dear Diary,Alright, maybe I won't write every day. That's a bit of a commitment for someone who's life is as busy as mine, wouldn't you think? I have tea with mother in the mid-morning, piano and sketching lessons in the early afternoon, and long strolls in Hogsmeade in the late afternoons. Isn't that such a busy life?
Except it's not—not right now, I guess. I'm trapped at the Sanditon and I'm too afraid to complain that I want to go home. Most people would be delighted to share the same luxuries that I'm getting to experience: the beach, the spa, the zoos, the ice cream! It would be so wonderful...if the novelty didn't fade so fast.
I'm writing today because I met a boy. His name is Paxton Fudge and he's apparently the son of the resort's proprietor, the ghost Herbert Fudge. He was the most illogical and silly boy I've ever met—but he was sweet. Kind of. I think we're friends now, but only time will tell if our acquaintanceship lasts.
With love, Flora
